


Severed Line

by FruitofSorrow



Category: Captain America (Movies), Captain America - All Media Types, Marvel
Genre: Angst, Dissociative Identity Disorder, Fluff and Angst, Homosexuality, Internalized Homophobia, M/M, Major romance, Okay so I wasn't going to add this without being completely sure but yes, Resolution, Romance, Things Get Better, but later, for realism, gotta work our way to these things, okay maybe not minor, sue me, there will be minor romance
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-01-09
Updated: 2019-02-28
Packaged: 2019-03-02 17:00:29
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 12
Words: 70,810
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13322562
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FruitofSorrow/pseuds/FruitofSorrow
Summary: Bucky finds out Steve is gay, and really, he could have handled it so much better.What happened when Steve and Bucky were apart?The journey as seen through Bucky's eyes, from before the war to after the fall of Hydra.***Bucky just never imagined that someone he’d put so much faith in, someone who, with his so-called flaws: his purity, patriotism, and pride—could be hiding such a perverse secret.Not until he came home late one night from work at the factory, eyes tired and body aching from hours of hauling metal scraps—and a brown envelope tucked on the inside of his coat— to find Steve and Stark on their ugly yellow sofa. Together.





	1. Severing

**Author's Note:**

> A chaptered fic that I started in October but haven't had the time to finish because of school. It's nowhere close to being where I want it to be but if I don't post it (after weeks spent nitpicking and making minor revisions) I'll never be able to get the second part started so here we go.
> 
> Status: Working on Chapter 11 (Part 2). To be posted February 22, 2019, unless something comes up.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is my first work on here. If you like it please let me know! I need motivation to write sometimes, I tend to put things off even when I shouldn't. Pressure makes me work harder. :)

 

He should have suspected it sooner, really. All the signs were there. Steve’s late night outings to dance clubs in the wrong side of town. His wrinkled clothes after sessions at Erskine and Stark’s joint laboratory. The sudden bruises speckled on his hips and arms. The discreet smiles and seemingly out-of-nowhere blushes that bloomed on his cheeks when either man gazed at his bare form for a second too long.

No, he should have realized his friend was a fairy way back in grade school. Should have noticed the way Steve looked at him every time he came to his rescue; how his eyes would shine and cheeks turn hot, only to afterwards feign protest and insist on having had things handled so Bucky wouldn’t notice that Steve had gotten a thrill from the way he always rushed in too willingly and eager to save him. 

_Him._ A boy no one would’ve given the time of day, let alone offered a hand to— at least not until Bucky came along and with him, favors of which he was the sole purveyer. Favors he wouldn’t otherwise extend to any of the other boys or girls they knew.

Yes, the Steve who was small and frail from illness ,  and too pretty for a boy with his blond hair and blue eyes, pink lips, and lithe body _._ Steve, whom boys came at with their fists and girls whispered about behind his back. 

_Steve,_ whose broken silhouette Bucky had frequently stumbled upon, laying flat against the red brick walls behind Luigi’s even as the smaller boy struggled to get back on his feet. And he could have kept his hands tucked in his pockets and walked on past the cobbled, cat urine-stenched-alleys, and would’ve, had his family not moved next door to Steve’s in the Summer of ’32. 

Steve had been just a boy his mother insisted he befriend so that Bucky wouldn’t feel alone at his new school. After his father’s death nothing was the same for them, and between his mother getting a second job and Becca starting school, Bucky lacked companionship and constancy.

Steve gave him all that. 

Mornings at Steve’s became a ritual when his mother couldn’t make ends meet. Hot breakfast too, courtesy of Steve’s mom, Sarah, who made sure that none of the kids went to school without food in their bellies. _Saint_ Sarah was what they called her before TB took her in ’36. It was then that Bucky got acquainted with Steve—the small, pasty boy who flip-flopped between comically reserved and frustratingly impetuous.

Steve was an artist who liked to breathe life to the concoctions of his mind, sometimes through his drawings and other times with actions: outlandish ideas and impulses that would’ve gotten him in trouble if not for Bucky having the common sense to ground him. He was also a guy misplaced in time—his ideals advanced and his compassion magnanimous, and in this crazy world on the brink of war and implosion, people in power had decided those to be dangerous things to have.

Steve gave Bucky hope and made him believe there was still good to be done. Erskine and Stark believed that too. That was why he was gone so many nights, participating in God knows how many tests and experiments toward the development of a drug that could eradicate disease and illness on the battlefield. Steve, who having suffered from so many ailments himself, was the perfect guinea pig for all sorts of potions and serums, though Bucky wasn’t allowed to know of what kind. Confidentiality was a bitch.

Sure, he worried. He hoped every night that it wouldn’t be Steve’s last. That he wouldn’t get a call from Erskine Laboratories telling him that something had gone wrong with a test. But he could look beyond that, because above everything—the fear and doubts—Bucky was proud. He’d been proud of Steve’s resilience dealing with bullies at school, and with how he got on after his mother’s death. Proud of the work he thought Steve was doing for mankind, and the drive with which he pursued it, even after being denied by the military once, twice, and then a third time. He’d been proud to call that selfless, albeit rash and occasionally stupid, man his friend—best friend.

Bucky just never imagined that someone he’d put so much faith in, someone who, with his so-called flaws: his purity, patriotism, and pride—could be hiding such a perverse secret. 

Not until he came home late one night from work at the factory, eyes tired and body aching from hours of hauling metal scraps—and a brown envelope tucked on the inside of his coat— to find Steve and Stark on their ugly yellow sofa. Together.

Neither had heard him enter, and it was the lack of acknowledgement on their part—Steve’s ignorance of his arrival in particular—that had him slamming the door behind him.

“What is this?” His voice boomed.

Steve and Stark jumped apart, limbs magnetically retracting to the sides of their owners. Steve’s shirt was unbuttoned halfway and falling by his elbows, and Stark’s hair a dark mess of greased coils.

“Bucky,” Steve breathed, rising quickly to his feet and pulling the shirt back around his narrow shoulder. “You’re home.”

The action wasn’t missed by Bucky, who took tentative steps towards the two men, eyes trained on Steve, and only watching Stark’s movements from his peripheral. “Yes, I’m home. Late I might add. What? Were ya counting on my finally being dead in a ditch somewhere?”

Normally that would’ve been said in jest, and the two would have laughed over their beers as Steve reached over to playfully punch the other in the arm, but Bucky was so far from joking he was borderline homicidal. He just didn’t know who he wanted to throttle more. The cocky playboy who— _still_ in his living room and _still_ not fully dressed—had just minutes ago been all over his best friend. Or Steve, the aforementioned best friend who he was just learning was, among other less politically correct terms, both a liar and a traitor.

Steve stepped forward to meet him, hesitantly extending his bony fingers to touch his arm, but Bucky pulled away roughly. “T-that’s not what I mean,” Steve said. “I just. I wasn’t keeping track of the time.”

“I wonder what could have had ya so _distracted_ ,” Bucky said, eyes fixed on Stark now.

“I think I should leave,” the dark-haired intruder said under the scrutiny of the seething brunet, and Bucky felt like he should personally _escort_ him to the door while he was at it. 

“That’s a good idea,” Steve agreed, readily. “I’ll see you at the lab, Howard.”

Stark put on his grossly expensive hat and dashed out the door, stepping into the frigid white canvas that was typical of a December in New York, with his nose buried in his coat.

It was the ominous silence that followed when the door shut to a clap like thunder that reminded both men they were alone.

“I’m sorry, Buck,” Steve started. “That I didn’t tell you. I—”

“What? That you’re a fuckin’ fairy, or that you’ve been fucking with Stark and God knows who else? How long, Steve? How long were ya planning on keeping this from me?”

Steve’s blue eyes hardened. “You’re not being fair.”

“I had a right to know!” Bucky said, raising his arms up in the air violently. 

He saw Steve flinch minutely and immediately let them fall back at his sides with a sigh before storming into the kitchenette for a glass of gin, or whatever tonic they had in the chipped blue cupboards.

“How was I supposed to tell you, huh?” Steve said, rushing in after him, his own hands pale and shaking. “You’ve never really given me an opening. You’ve always gone on about how you’d seen some _queers_ doing this, or some _fairies_ doing that, and how if it were up to you you’d run them all—all of _us_ — out of town.”

Bucky smashed his glass on the dark counter, the fragments of glass spilling all over its surface and onto the cream-colored linoleum floor. “It’s not the same!” 

His palm was wet with crimson but he was too consumed by rage to care.

Steve ran a hand through his hair, exasperated. He wanted to say something, rebuff him—tell him to get his hand fixed up—but he was angry, and he wasn’t going to ease up until Bucky admitted he was being stupid.

“Don’t know why you’re so upset,” Steve continued, his voice low and steady. “This has nothing to do with you, and while I may be queer, I’m not an idiot, Buck. I know what would happen if people knew. And besides, I’ve kept this secret from _you_ all these years—you who are like a brother to me.”

Bucky groaned, dragging his unstained palm slowly down his face. “Is that supposed to make me feel better?” 

Steve shrugged, remorseless.

“So ya want us to keep being buddies? Like this doesn’t change things? Like suddenly I don’t know the kind of person—”

“Why not?” The shorter man interjected. “ Why can’t things be the same. I’m still me.”

An unsolicited growl sprung from Bucky’s throat. Oh, the things he would give to act like everything was fine and dandy—that his friend was just a regular guy, or as regular as he’d ever been—but he couldn’t. Not when he’d always have to wonder if the hugs and the smiles Steve reserved for him were actually charged with something else. Something that, if he wasn’t careful, could swallow both of them whole. 

“I. Can’t. Steve,” he enunciated slowly. “Why can’t ya understand that this isn’t something I can just brush off. I can’t suddenly not know that my friend likes guys in the same way that I like gals. It isn’t right. You’re asking me to throw away my upbringing. Turn my back on my religion. Even if I could accept this,it would take time— time I’m not so sure I’ll even get to have—.”

His lips immediately sealed. He misspoke—said too much. This wasn’t how he’d planned—

There was a question in Steve’s clear eyes—an accusation tinged with disbelief and disappointment that Bucky didn’t have the courage to answer. 

Instead he inhaled slowly, breathing out only when he felt his emotions controlled and reason return to him. But he couldn’t do this right now. So he skirted around the blond, keeping as much icy distance between them as possible, and went out the way he came—tired and in pain—and ignoring the last of Steve’s calls for him to return.

 

 

Bucky spent one of the longest nights away from home and only returned to the apartment the next morning to get some things for work. Becca had been kind enough to let him stay over without prying, despite eyeing the blood on his shirt intently and then poking a manicured finger between the angry furrow of his brows. She must have known he’d had a fight with Steve because for once she didn’t press him about how the blond man was doing, or if he’d finally sold any of his art pieces—which he hadn’t. It looked like the rent would be Bucky’s sole responsibility this month too.

Wearing the blue slacks he’d gone to work in the day before, Bucky ambled through the living room, scowling at the sight of the couch—in all its old and moldy glory—as if it were the source of all his problems. He tore his gaze away and quietly pried the bedroom door open. He was back for a change of fresh clothes, and that was it. He’d wash up at the factory, if time allowed, and then maybe if he was down by the time his shift ended, he’d come back to the apartment and have another go at talking with Steve. Without breaking a glass in his hand and stomping out of the house during a storm. If he could help it.

“Buck?” Came Steve’s gravelly-from-sleep voice.

Bucky cursed under his breath. “Go back to sleep, Steve.”

Steve sat up. “Listen, Buck. I’m—”

“Later, Steve. We’ll talk after work.”

Steve didn’t reply right away, and the few seconds of silence that followed were a respite to Bucky’s sanity.

“Ok,” Steve said, finally. “I’ll leave the lab early then.”

“Don’t bother. I’m taking a night shift,” Bucky said, short. 

And with that he was gone once more.

 

 

The whole day he thought of nothing but what he was going to say to Steve. What _could_ he say? A part of him realized that he could have been gentler with him, but another—angrier— part rebuked the concept of kindness. At least for the moment. 

He wanted to _scream._ Punch something. Punch _Steve_. But at the same time he didn’t want to cause him any pain. Steve had been wounded too many times before—in the kind of way that wouldn’t just heal like a superficial cut or a bruise—wouldn’t coagulate and scab, or leave an indelible scar as the only proof that something avoidable had happened. It was the kind of wound that widened and festered and stayed a messy, gaping hole forever.

Luckily, Steve wasn’t the type of guy to go down easily, and that made him feel only slightly less guilty about his severe behavior, though he supposed that still made him an asshole when all was said and done.

So he closed up the factory and hailed a cab, and when he got home he wasn’t at all surprised to find Steve still up and sitting on that blasted couch with his knees to his chest.

“Ya could have slept, ya know. Would’ve woken ya up,” Bucky said, hanging up his coat by the door, and toeing off his black oxfords.

Steve’s expression was grim, his eyes red from either lack of sleep or crying— not that he’d ever fess up to that. He could be unreasonably proud sometimes, but he would never scorn another man for crying. When Bucky had cried once, Steve merely put a hand on the man’s shoulder and rubbed soothing circles through the flannel of his shirt. He just wouldn’t extend that privilege to himself.

“I was worried you wouldn’t come back.”

Bucky had to hold back from snorting. _Now ya care._

“Well I’m here,” he said instead, sagging into the rickety, brown armchair across from Steve. “So let’s do this.” 

Before Bucky had time to draw in another breath, Steve launched into what he hoped was a well-rehearsed apology. “Bucky, you’re my best friend,” he blurted, touching the bottoms of his feet flat against the stained brown rug. His focused eyes and stiff upper-lip meant business, Bucky recognized.

“But I’m not sorry for who I am. I’m only sorry that this is so uncomfortable for you, and that it’s getting between our friendship,” Steve said, twiddling his thumbs on his lap.

Bucky stayed quiet, but to say his mind wasn’t addled would be a lie.

“And I can’t change myself for you, not when I haven’t been able to change for myself these last ten years. Believe me, I _tried._ ”

“So what are ya saying?” Bucky cut in.

“I’m saying that if you want me gone, it’s done. I’ll go back to my old place. I’ve saved enough money for a month’s rent, and I got an offer from a seller to get my paintings in the shop. If that doesn’t work out, I can always stay with Erskine. He offered me his spare bedroom a few months back. Said it’d save me the trouble of commuting to the lab, and I wouldn’t have to spend a cent on meals.”

As Steve rambled on, Bucky’s pulse increased. “Seems like you’ve got it all sorted out,” he offered, through gritted teeth once Steve had finished gushing over his sweet arrangement.

“I’ve been thinking about this for a while,” Steve admitted. “I didn’t want to keep imposing on you. It hasn’t exactly been fair. Ya know, with the rent and everything.”

“Dammit, Steve!” Bucky exploded, rising to his feet.

Steve’s eyes widened imperceptibly, before he also stood to match the other’s gaze, though with their height difference the attempt was moot.

“You’re an aggravating piece of shit, ya know that?” Bucky went on. “It’s like ya think the world is a chess board, and you’re the queen who has to put herself in harm’s way so she can save the day!”

Both men recoiled from the choice of words—the double entendre.

“I can get by on my own, Buck.”

“Yeah?” Bucky challenged, invading Steve’s space. His stale breath hit the blond’s face from this intimate distance. “There are hundreds of miserable chumps out there much smaller and sicker than ya, and they get on fine. They take the lot that’s been given them and they live great, fulfilling lives. But ya know what?” Bucky said, jabbing a finger into Steve’s chest.

Steve tried swatting the hand away but Bucky was relentless.

“Not all of them have the Stark logo stamped on their behind. Not all of them have an Erskine to hold their hand and pump them with chemicals so that the next time they go to bed it isn’t their last. They don’t all have a stupid guy like me looking out for them, whether they appreciate it or not, but _you_ do.”

He jabs him again, only slightly softer for fear of bruising the thin, translucent skin.

“Ya may think you’ve got something to prove, that ya can do everything on your own like the guys who get into the army and fight in wars, but the thing is, Steve, ya don’t _have_ to. Relying on people doesn’t make ya weak.”

There was stalemate in Steve’s eyes, Bucky could tell. Somewhere during his monologue, Steve had shut up and listened, but it was yet to be seen if he’d taken what Bucky said to heart.

“Well,” Steve mumbled, eyes dropping to the bottom half of Bucky’s bristly face. “If you don’t want to be friends, and you don’t want me to move out, what is it that you’re asking of me—exactly?”

Bucky leaned away, giving Steve his air and space back. He reached under the lapel of his work coat and pulled out the brown envelope he’d meant to show Steve the night prior, before he’d seen what he did, and held it out for the shorter man.

Steve didn’t need to take it to know what it was.

“When?” Steve asked, eyes flittering back to Bucky’s. Searching.

“I ship out on Monday.”

That gave them a little over half a week to get things in order. Bucky had done the calculations at work when he was supposed to be focused on his job. With their money put together, Steve would be able to keep the apartment for another three months, and if his deal with the shopkeeper went through, he’d probably be able to sustain himself for another two or three months until the money ran out. At that point Steve could decide to find a cheaper apartment or take up Erskine’s offer. 

Bucky wasn’t necessarily thrilled with that option, but with him gone there wouldn’t be anything he could say or do to dissuade Steve if he set his mind to it. He could always ask Becca to look after Steve, but she didn’t need the extra stress piled on top of everything she had going on, though Bucky was sure she’d be thrilled to help out regardless. 

Honestly, it sometimes felt like Bucky had adopted two uselessly selfless brats—neither with any sense of self-preservation, and to make matters worse, he was their single father.

“I don’t want you to leave with us like this,” Steve said, shuffling backwards until the back of his knees hit the couch and he plopped down. “I don’t want this to be—” he drawled, letting the rest of the words evaporate off his tongue.

_The last time we see each other,_ Bucky finished in his head. 

Steve didn’t have to spell it out. This could very well be the last time Bucky’s ever home. The war had hit its zenith and more and more soldiers were being captured or killed by the day. Bucky was a factory worker, and yeah, he knew how to use his fists, and his shot wasn’t too bad either, but this was _war._ Bucky wasn’t a soldier. Not at heart, like Steve was. 

_If only we could switch bodies. We’d both be a lot happier._

_“_ Ya can always visit Becca when I’m gone. She’ll be happy to see ya; she’s missed you. And you’ll keep busy with your painting and your… _volunteer_ work. You won’t even notice I’m gone. Ya always say ya don’t need me to keep an eye on you, anyhow.”

Steve’s eyes narrowed. “I’m not worried about myself, jerk. It’s you who’ll be lonely. You’re a people person—can’t stand being alone for more than five minutes.”

Bucky cracked a smile at that. “Yeah, I s'pose that’s true.”

And t _here_ it was _._ The cracking ice. If he looked closely, he could almost see the licks of flame waving their flimsy limbs at him from behind the thick sheets between them—like they were dancing or saying _hello_ after a long period of separation, which he in fact knew wasn’t long at all but was just as painful as if it had been.

Bucky’s eyes, which were aimed somewhere behind Steve’s head, had almost glazed over until Steve muttered, “I-I can write you, if you want.” 

He came to just in time to see the meek Steve only he’d been familiar with all these years, rubbing the back of his neck. 

“If that’s okay, I mean. I’d like to.”

Bucky snorted. “The soldiers will think I’m a two-timer with both you and Becca writing me.”

It took one look at Steve’s unamused face to send him reeling. 

“But it’s not like I’d toss them out or anything,” Bucky amended, digging the toe of his loafers into the carpet.

“Thanks, I’ll keep that in mind,” Steve said, tentatively. 

The kettle Steve must have put on the stove before Bucky came home went off, sending the man scurrying away to move it off the fire. 

Bucky sat down on the spot where Steve had sat, and threw his head back.

“Want some tea, or a coffee?”

“Nah,” Bucky said, the ghost of a sigh slipping through his parted lips.

There was familiarity in this. In all of this. Steve making tea while Bucky—the ungrateful ass—declined a cup. The two of them fighting and making up. But this wasn’t that, was it? This time the argument had been different—felt more cataclysmic— and Bucky had every doubt that they’d even made up at all. Not with unexplained indignation still gnawing on his conscience.

If he was being honest, he’d actually been set on kicking Steve out. Been prepared to give him his month’s pay from the job at the factory and helping him pack his bags, so he could call a cab to take him wherever it was he wanted to go. 

It was only when the smaller man had started on feeling guilt and wanting to take the burden of Steve’s livelihood off Bucky’s shoulder, that the fear kicked in. But fear of what?

Maybe that if they parted Bucky wouldn’t have any way of keeping Steve off the streets and away from alleyways. That Steve might fall ill again and wouldn’t be able to get out of bed on his own. That if something happened to him when Bucky could have been there to prevent it, the remorse would destroy him from the inside. That if Steve wasn’t around anymore, Bucky might feel the emptiness of his departure in every nook and cranny of their apartment, and he would truly be alone.

Other people handled loneliness well, but Steve was right, Bucky wasn’t one of them. He grew attached to people easily and got hurt most when they were gone, and he knew it was probably selfish to want to keep Steve by his side after how he’s treated him. But maybe things would work out on their own.

Maybe he wouldn’t be able to completely overlook that his friend was a queer. But Steve was Steve. Right?

And maybe they wouldn’t be fine for a very long time, whether he came back from the war or not. But for now, Bucky could pretend they would. He could pretend Steve was normal. That they were still normal. 

And he knew the regret would come later, but was it wrong to want to postpone the hurt for as long as possible? What was the harm?

 

 

 


	2. Patchwork

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Five months have passed since Bucky left for the army and Steve has stopped writing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, the cognizance of death looming over him is making Bucky think a lot clearer about what has transpired between him and Steve. You know what they say about distance being a healing agent. His army companions happen to be jerks as well. Also, he gets a bit dramatic towards the end. Haha. Oh, Bucky. Please enjoy. If you don't I might shoot myself. Metaphorically of course.
> 
> Actual Note: I decided to extend this work beyond the three chapters I originally planned for. I'm aiming for five chapters now, but to avoid looking completely indecisive, I'm leaving the total chapters marked as undefined for now.

**-Five Months Into Service-**

 

Bucky dropped the unloaded sniper gun on his cot and undid the first few buttons of his dirtied uniform. His neck was damp with sweat and he needed to bathe badly, but the boys were taking turns in groups of six, and he and Jones wouldn’t be up until the guys in the three tents over were finished.

There had been an airstrike in a nearby town earlier in the day and instead of engaging the aggressors on the other side, their foot unit had been commanded to fall back and wait for the planes to pass before advancing into enemy territory. Their infantry was still waiting on the tanks the 141st had hijacked from the Germans back at Paestum just a month prior, and without anti-aircraft artillery at their disposal they were pretty much limited to minor arms battles. Luckily, they’d had an aerial advantage with the help of the British, who had been stationed nearby, and with whose help they managed to outgun the Germans and their Italian allies.

The day had been longer and more chaotic than others, and many times while knee-deep in mire and having to step over fallen bodies, Bucky had caught himself thinking he could be gunned down in the blink of an eye and neither Becca or Steve would have a clue about it until the General sent out missives to the families a week later. To think that he could really be laying in a ditch like he and Steve had so often jested would be ironic to say the least, and it brought out a sardonic chuckle.

Speaking of Steve, it had been over a month since the last letter from New York came and he too had a few drafts he needed to send before the infantry packed up and moved camp again.

Bucky shuffled over to his knapsack and plunged his hand into the pile of broken pocket knives, toiletries, and junk keepsakes from the towns they’d passed, to pull out a small stack of postcards and letters from his friends and family. Sandwiched between these were the letters he’d penned but had otherwise been too engaged to mail. He took the first piece of crumpled paper and scanned it over to see if there was any chance it could be salvaged and sent tonight.

It read:

_Dear Becca,_

_Thanks for writing. I’m glad that school has been fine and that things are good with Ben. Be careful not to do anything stupid like get hitched or pregnant before graduating, because you’re our family’s last hope and as your big brother I reserve the right to maim any bastard that messes up your studies. Anyway, Steve wrote me the other day saying that Erskine has made headway with the latest drug they’re testing and that if all goes well he’ll be finished with his work by the end of the month, but I haven’t received any news since then and I was wondering if you knew anything about that. I know I told Steve I wouldn’t stick my nose in his business anymore, but it’s strange that he would stop writing without any explanation. Something might have happened to him––not that I’m worried.  Though there’s always the possibility he might’ve gotten involved in some deep and sticky predicament and isn’t being allowed to write. I hope he wasn’t mugged on the street again. Or maybe Erskine finally went and did it––killed Steve, I mean. I knew I should have stopped him from going to New York. Best case scenario he’s laying in a hospital bed right now and doesn’t remember his own name. Okay, so I might be a little concerned. Just, please let me know if you see or hear from him. Love you lots._

_-Bucky_

 

Bucky shook his head and set the letter aside to unfold the one he’d written afterwards.

 

_Hey Becca, it’s me again._

_So I think your letter got lost on the way here because I only received it last night and it was postmarked two weeks ago. You wrote to say that you hadn’t heard from Steve in a while, but since a couple of weeks have passed I thought you might have run into him somewhere by now. If it’s not too much trouble, could you inquire after him? Only if you can. I’m sure he probably has a letter on the way. The post service here is awfully slow._

_Be good. I love you._

_-Bucky_

 

Yeah, this one was more palatable, if only by a hair––at least it didn’t sound obsessive. However, Bucky realized, reading it with new eyes, that it wasn’t the longest nor most detailed letter he could have written to his sister after almost a month of not sending anything. There wasn’t much he was allowed to write, nor was there anything he thought would interest Becca to know.

 _So hey, I haven’t showered in three weeks and I bathed in a muddy lake five days ago wherein a soldier swore he was bit by something with razor-sharp teeth. Hygiene here is the greatest!_ Wouldn’t really go over too well. Neither would: _Breakfast this morning was unlike anything I’ve ever had before—a small bowl of watery soup and a cracker. And for dinner, half a can of beans and a quarter slice of bread. Yum!_

Then there was also the small matter of him almost being shot a few days back. A bullet had flown right past him on the field, grazing the skin of his left arm and leaving him with a sore but otherwise non-vital wound. He was told that with the lack of medical staff on site, if the bullet had hit a major artery Bucky would’ve had to get his whole arm sawed off. She really didn’t need to know that either.

So he reached for a fountain pen he’d crammed into the bag alongside everything else and set out to write something a bit more comforting.

He walked to the small makeshift table Jones had set up for them using an old crate as the base, and for a smooth writing surface: a copper serving tray they’d picked up from the ransacked enemy camp. An ink droplet fell on the page as the pen hovered over the smoothed-out letter.

 _P.S,_ he wrote, squinting for the lack of light. It was nearly dark out and each _ten-by-ten_ tent had only been granted a small oil lamp, theirs of which had almost burned out. They weren’t like the kerosene lamps back home, not nearly as durable, but they sufficed.

 

_I’m sorry that I haven’t written much about me. I’m well. Victory doesn’t seem to be within reach though, and it doesn’t help that there’s been talk about the government keeping some super soldier on a leash back in the States, but that they’re putting him to meager use until they find out what to do with him. What a waste, if you ask me. If he’s an able fighter, they should send him here to fight. We need all the help we can get. I can’t tell you enough times how sick I am of this damn war, Becca. I wish I could see you. You’re the reason I keep on pushing. So here’s to hoping we’ll win this thing and be done with it. Until next time._

 

He returned the pen to its case and sat up straight on his stool, raising his arms over his head in a lazy stretch. The crumpled canvas shirt that he’d pulled out of his bag earlier rose with the elongation of his limbs, exposing an inch or two of skin by his naval and the narrow patch of hair that trailed into his trousers.

This letter would have to do for now, he thought, tugging the shirt down and folding the paper into thirds.

The flaps of the small tent were pushed aside and in came Jones, Bucky’s current tent-mate. Jones was an expert marksman from Georgia who also happened to be excellent with languages. He was moved to the 107th from the 92nd infantry shortly before being deployed to Italy where his knowledge of German has been indispensable, given the ridiculous amount of German posts speckled here and there. The other soldiers didn’t seem to take to him all too well yet, and Bucky had his suspicions why, but _he_ liked Jones just fine. He was sensible when it counted, fun company on a foggy day, and played a mean game of poker when Bucky was in need of a capable sparring partner. Cards didn’t play themselves, and he sure as heck wouldn’t ask Dugan and the bunch of stinkin’ cheaters he surrounded himself with to a game if he could help it.

“Hey, man,” Jones said. “The others are done bathing.”

Bucky nodded, stuffing the letter in his trousers.

“I’ll be there in a minute,” Bucky said, and Jones went ahead without him.

Only the dim lights gleaming from inside the other tents illuminated the pebbled path to the military courier. A group of soldiers had gathered a little ways off to play cards and had put a ring of lamps around them to see. They’d been given strict orders not to start a fire for the smoke, even though they’d cleared the nearby town earlier in the day. Russian assassins and rebel groups had the tendency to make appearances when one least expected them, Bucky had realized not even a month into his service, and smoke was a good shroud in battle but had the opposite effect outside of it.

Coincidentally, Dugan happened to spot him on the path and hollered, “Hey, Barnes! Join us.” But Bucky bowed his head, declined, and continued on his way.

As it so happened, the 107th and 141st shared a courier so mail services had been cut down to once a week instead of three times, and sometimes not even that often. The courier was only around for a few nights at a time and Bucky didn’t want to risk missing him. Honestly, it’d be much simpler to have someone just go down and use the Italian post, but military letters were to be inspected by a General and mailed using military ships, and the 107th was currently General-free so Bucky had no choice but to follow procedure.

The post tent was indistinguishable from the rest save for a lone copper star marking one of the flaps. A man was on his way out when Bucky arrived and he couldn’t help but notice the ghastly expression on his face, as if he’d seen a ghost or was severely malnourished—which wouldn’t surprise Bucky, given his own poor diet as of late. But Bucky also noticed a slip of paper clenched in the man’s pallid fists, and he assumed the man’s state was the byproduct of some unwanted news from back home.

Bucky swallowed, hard.

He had to give pause to consider what kind of news would arrive for him the next time he got a letter of his own. Would he ever receive some life altering news. About Becca? About Steve? It made him nervous to even think about.

“Can I help you?”

Bucky snapped out of it. “Yes,” he said, fishing out his letter. “I need to mail this.”

The courier was a middle-aged gentleman with a dark beard and thick sideburns, a hooked nose, and expressive brown eyes that looked at Bucky with mild irritation and apathy all at once. He sat behind a small desk with stacks of paper on the side, an open ink pot to his right, and a large quill in his hand.

He humphed. “Give it here then,” he said, sticking out an open palm.

Bucky handed it over and the man returned to writing whatever it was he was working on. Bucky imagined it was some sort of registry, to keep track of letters coming in and going out. It wasn’t unheard of to have spies within the ranks, so if secret information were to ever end up in enemy hands, the registry would be able to help officials determine who had sent out mail and at what time. Of course it wasn’t a fool proof system. There were tons of work-arounds at play, some Bucky knew very well from having heard other soldiers whispering about them at odd hours of the night, but it was better to have some precautions in place than none.

“I was wondering,” Bucky said, and the courier looked back at him, an eyebrow crooked upwards as if surprised to find him still there. “If there’s any mail for James Buchanan Barnes; serial number 32557038.”

The man glowered at him before clearing his throat with a loud phlegmy sound. “I’d have to sort through all this mail,” he said, accusatory, then looking back down as if that would inspire the young soldier to leave. But when it didn’t, the man rolled his eyes in resignation, before adding: “Come back in an hour.”

Bucky thanked the bitter man—who was lucky the army had such strict rules of manner in place, or else Bucky would have given him a piece of his Brooklyn mind— before dashing back outside. It worked out perfectly that he had to go bathe first anyway. If he received a letter now he’d want to go back to the tent to read it in private. Not to mention how stupid it would be of him to take any correspondance near the water, especially around guys who acted like they were still in grade school sometimes. Once, a whole lot of them had confiscated a young man’s letters to him from his girlfriend and took turns prancing around in circles and reading the words in high pitched voices-– all the while the embarrassed boy struggled to free his arms from the iron grip holding them behind his back.

A month later the boy would be killed in action in a little town in Southern Ardennes. The men who’d tormented him became noticeably considerate towards the younger soldiers for a time afterwards— until an even younger, fresher-faced group of recruits appeared out of nowhere and they went back to their usual monkeying around.

Bucky had looked upon them with disdain, remembering how hard Steve had fought against his bullies and how Bucky had always wished they would leave the small boy alone so that neither would have to nurse wounds at school, or worse, come home to show their battered faces to their mothers. But old habits die hard, and Bucky wasn’t particularly moved to step in for any of the younglings here, especially since he didn’t know any of them personally.

He’d had his fill of disappointing friends.

“Barnes, hurry up!”

Bucky saw Jones and some of the men he recognized from the battle earlier in the day, standing in the middle of the river—water up to their waists—beckoning him over. He quickly ambled through short bushes, stepping on small twigs that crunched under his feet, and swatting away moths, before he stripped out of his clothes and joined them.

“Did you hear the news, buddy?” A man with a beer belly and bushy beard said, slapping a firm hand on Bucky’s back. “The dance troupe is coming!”

Bucky coughed slightly from the impact’s force. “Dance troupe?”

“Yeah, man! Buncha ladies in tight, short dresses, wearing that classy red, white, and blue. Ya know, like the flag? They’ll be ‘ere in a few nights,” said another.

“I had no idea,” Bucky confessed. “That’s pretty neat.”

But the excitement didn’t come through in his mannerisms or voice, and for a moment Bucky was afraid the fellas would start thinking up something strange, so he cleared his throat and tried it again,

“Gotta say, it’s a relief. Been out here so long I almost forgot what a woman looked like. Had to look at all your ugly mugs every day. Didn’t help.” He laughed, slapping back the pot-bellied man, hard.

The man stumbled forward in the water before catching himself and then wordlessly turning the stink eye on him.

“Ya ever been with more than one dame, Bucky?” One of the younger men asked, a cocksure smile on his face.

Bucky couldn’t tell if he was asking out of curiosity or if he was trying to start something. “At the same time?”

“Of course!” the boy said.

Rising to the challenge, Bucky said, projecting loudly for the people in the back: “In Brooklyn there wasn’t a bar or dance hall where I couldn’t find a nice girl to leave arm-in-arm with. Sometimes even two of ‘em in one night. Took a different girl dancing every night of the week.”

That he’d leave with two dates because Steve would run off somewhere to try to enlist for the nth time was unnecessary information he didn’t feel the soldiers were exactly privy to.

“I don’t believe ya a stinkin’ bit,” retorted the young man.

“I believe it,” Jones said, coming to his aid.

Bucky threw him a grateful glance.

“With a fine face like that it’s no wonder he gets letters twice a week. At least he used to, not so much now.”

“Is that right? You got them girls from back home pining after ya?”

Bucky didn’t know what to say. It was true that when Steve had been writing he’d get mail twice a week. Most of the men only received one letter from their sweethearts or mothers expressing the collective sentiments of the family back home. The army had tried to impose a limitation on how many letters one could send or receive, so for those without a reason, letters were asked to be limited to once a week. Bucky had explained that he only had two relatives alive and that they didn’t live nearby for a joint letter to be possible, so they allowed the second letter to come through. Of course he didn’t tell them the truth: that Steve wasn’t exactly a relative. If they knew they wouldn’t have allowed it.

The guys were probably thinking what he’d suspected from the beginning—that Bucky was a two-timing playboy. He could try to refute that, or he could run with it. Score some points. That was how these soldiers got on––bonding over common interests: women, gambling, booze...

In the end he decided that a little white lie wasn’t so bad, especially if it saved him face. He had to put up with most of them until the war ended anyway, might as well try to get along. It afforded him the tranquility of not getting into unnecessary trouble, as if the war itself weren’t enough cause for bloodshed.

“What can I say?” Bucky grinned. “I’m a charmer.”

“Ey, you dog!” One of the men clapped. “That’s how ya do it.”

Despite his prior determination and bravado, Bucky felt a blush crawling to the tips of his ears and he thanked the heavens that it was too dark out for anyone to notice.

“It’s good to have some real manly company around,” the pot-bellied man said. “Not like those fairies from the 23rd. Can’t believe they’d let in so many of those queers—thin as lamp posts, as twisted as spoons. Hey, maybe they should send that dancing princess, what’s his name, _Captain America_ over to ‘em instead. I’m sure they’d like that.”

“That’s not nice, Wade,” Jones warned him, stern.

The men just laughed, and Bucky’s stomach twisted something vile.

“Captain America?” He asked, eyes flitting from soldier to soldier.

“Yeah, ain’t heard of him?” Jones remarked, surprise in his voice.

Bucky shook his head. “Who’s that?”

“Ya seriously haven’t heard of him?” Wade continued. “They say he wears star-spangled tights, and tours bases singing campy little songs. He’s America’s golden boy; they’ve got him starring in movies now. Imagine that.”

“And he’s coming here?”

“With the dance troupe.” The younger man from before laughed, making waving motions with his arms and swaying his head back and forth in what Bucky could only assume was a poor dance imitation.

It sent everyone but Jones and him howling with laughter once more.

“Wonder where they found a bastard like him. Dancing around instead of doing his duty to his country. Can’t expect much from fairies, I guess,” added a relentless Wade. “Hey, Jones, do black folk have ‘em too? Fairies, I mean.”

The familiar look of bewilderment on Jones’ face caused flashes of baby blues to appear in Bucky’s mind, propagating that sinking feeling that was starting to develop in the pit of his stomach. Once upon a time he might’ve laughed and added his own two cents, but he couldn’t help but take it personally. He had a face to attach to the names and the jeers now, and it stroked his protective side—the side he’d furiously tried to erase in the army, believing that with the distance between him and Steve, he would succeed. He felt pathetic that it wasn’t the case. The anger surging inside of him was testament to it.

“Hey, hey, relax man. Was only messing around,” Wade said, face red and pulling away.

It was then that Bucky realized he’d unknowingly seized Wade’s fat upper-arm, cutting off his blood circulation. He looked down at his own hand like it belonged to someone else––the unfamiliar protruding veins, the ashen skin, the scarily thin wrist. This _wasn’t_ his body. It couldn’t be.

Then he looked at Wade’s round face, the moisture in his eyes, the angry wheat-colored brows that curved inward, and the slightly quivering lips. He looked like an animal caught in a trap. He looked despicable, and vile, and like he really needed someone to teach him a lesson on human decency. But then Bucky caught the reflection of himself in those angry, glassy eyes.

Who was Bucky to exact such discipline when he couldn’t even be a decent human when it mattered most? When he’d let his pride dictate the course of his relationship with his best friend. All along, the one who’d worn this sickly skin, this sallow face, this diseased body, had been him––not Steve. And he didn’t have anyone he could pin the blame on for it. He’d let himself become this all on his own. This poor excuse for a human.

His fingers unraveled from the foreign skin, and he moved back, watching as the white imprints left behind by his manifested ire returned to their natural fleshy color.

“What the fuck, man?” Wade seethed, retreating to the shallow end of the river to grab his discarded clothes. “You’re a psycho!”

Bucky did the same, ignoring the men’s chaotic reproaches of _what was that_ and _why’d you go and do that for_ . He didn’t need to listen to them––full-bodied shoulder devils. They were the same as Wade. The same as _him_. His life had been a comic tragedy filled with following voices like theirs—getting in trouble for it too. What a laugh. All this time he’d thought he’d been the rational one. The one Steve couldn’t live a day without. Turned out he hadn’t done anything but hold Steve back.

That thought consumed him as he stomped his way over to the courier’s.

“My mail,” he demanded through his teeth once he arrived–– chest heaving, but trying to pull himself together.

The man looked up, choosing not to heed the warning in Bucky’s eyes because he said, “It hasn’t been an hour.”

Bucky was at his wit’s end. Patience his ass. He stormed up to the wobbly desk that shook with every scratch and scribble the courier made, and grabbed a fistful of the man’s shirt.

“Listen, I’m not in such a great mood right now. I just want my goddamn letter, and I’ll be out of your hair. Isn’t that what you want? For people to let you have some peace and quiet? Well, me too. But clearly that’s not going to happen tonight, because _look_ at me—does it look like I’m fucking peaches?” He shook the man for emphasis. “Unluckily for you, I have the sudden _need_ to bash someone’s face in, so unless you want that someone to be you, I suggest you put my letter in my hand in the next minute or I’m going to have to write a letter of apology to the General for doing away with his little secretary. Got it?”

The man nodded pathetically.

Bucky let him fall back in his chair and watched as the man scrambled to open the upper desk drawer. He pulled out the top-most letter and, with a shaky hand, offered it to an incredulous Bucky.

“Are you fucking kidding me?” Bucky roared, snatching the paper from his hands, which drew a small whimper out of him. “You had it there the entire time and wanted me to wait a fuckin’ hour?”

He kicked the table, though not with great force, to show his displeasure. Because that’s how guys seemed to learn best around here: with action, not _pretty pleases_ and supplications.

“You wanted me to leave and come back later when you could’ve just fuckin’ handed it to me the first time I asked?”

The man shrunk down into his seat like a baby bird in its nest.

Bucky shoved a hand through his damp hair and made a sharp turn to leave. “I can’t fuckin’ believe this. Everyone here is an idiot.”

He left, fuming––a new habit of his–– and forgetting he even had a letter in his hand until he was back at the tent, splayed over his cot, and looking intently through one of the holes on the canvas ceiling. When he squinted he could see the tiny clusters of stars off in the distance, winking brightly down at him. Some reassuringly and others probably smug. Doing this reminded him of nights when he and Steve would sneak out of Bucky’s bedroom after everyone had gone to sleep, to crawl up the side of the house onto the roof and just lay there in silence, taking in the constellations—trying to find new ones. Back when life was simple and he and Steve were okay, or at the very least he knew where Steve _was._

_The letter._

In all his discomposure he hadn’t even looked to see who it was from.

He swung his legs over the bed and lit up the oil lamp. The envelope was brown and a bit weathered, but he could make out the address just fine. It was from Becca.

How long had it been since the last letter from her arrived? 8...12...16...24. No, 28 days had passed; nearly a month. Time, the tricky bastard, seemed to have a way of passing silently when life rushed around him and the war raged on.

Without further ado, he tore into the seal and pulled out the folded missive.

_Dear Brother,_

_You owe me an explanation––several in fact, but I’ll deal with you when you get back. The last time I wrote I mentioned that Steve had gone to live with Erskine, and that because of school I hadn’t been able to make the trip to see him. He and I never kept in touch after you left, you see, so it never struck me as odd to hear silence from his end. Then you started rambling on endlessly about him in your letters and you didn’t have to spell it out for me to know that what you were really fishing for were details about him. That’s when I figured he stopped writing to you too. So last week (your time, assuming you get this promptly), Ben and I took a train to New York to look up Steve’s new abode. We had to ask for directions often and go through several oddly dressed people telling us that the address didn’t exist, and that we’d better go back to where we came from (honestly, Bucky, the people in New York are so rude). Anyway, we asked around about Steve until a stranger told us they knew him––from having seen him at a distance–– and when we said we came to visit on your behalf, we were given instructions on how to get to Erskine’s apartment. It was already close to nightfall so we decided to forego our arrival until the next morning, and we got ourselves situated at a nearby hotel, determined to set out early the next day. When we finally arrived at Erskine’s, however, the place looked like it had been abandoned for weeks. At this point Ben started coming up with ridiculous conspiracy theories that quite frankly flew over my head, and the only way I could get him to shut up was to propose we wait for a neighbor to appear so we could inquire after it. A nice old lady from across the street––paranoid looking thing who swore the whole block had been infested with government agents ever since the war started––and who had apparently been watching us through her window, gave us the shocking news. Before I go on, I must relate that we weren’t able to locate Steve. As for Dr. Erskine, however, it’s with great consternation that I must report he is dead…_

Bucky’s ears rung with the cacophonous thumping of his heart.

 _Dead._ How could Erskine be dead? And where was Steve in all this? What the _fuck_ had Stark gotten him involved in? He should have realized there was more to those experiments than Steve had let on. That the reason Steve might not have wanted to tell him the truth had nothing to do with the stupid confidentiality clause he’d signed, but rather that he didn’t want him to know. Period. Because if he _had_ wanted to tell Bucky, he would have, clause or no clause. So then why? He didn’t think he would understand? That seemed to be a recurring theme with them. But there had to be another reason? The pieces didn’t add up.

Not that it mattered now. Erskine was dead, and Steve was lost, and there was a chance, however miniscule, that whatever had happened to Erskine might have happened to him too. What Bucky had to do now was find him, whatever it took. He needed to make a plan.

But it was difficult to think straight when his head swam against the barrage of possible eventualities that racked his mind––tumultuous and unabating––and some involving a very much dead Steve. Just thinking about it made the bile in his throat rise. He felt hopeless. The earth seemed to be in accordance with his perdition because it vibrated forcefully with every shallow breath he took. It was as if he could uproot the trees with his dread––as if soil and plant could negate one another like different charges on a magnet: phobic, and no longer able to maintain a harmony. _This was what it must feel like to be split in two_ , Bucky thought. Like worlds caving in, and the sound––oh the sound, like thunder and fire, and all the elements awaking from a sleep that humankind had for so long disturbed. The Earth was taking victims now, and Bucky _felt_ it in his bones, the creaking and snapping of collagen, the swishing marrow, and her hypnotic humming from anticipation to claim him as the first.

Was this how the man leaving the courier earlier had felt? Doomed?

Had he also felt the winds? Smelled how they carried over gusts of gunpowder. How they violently tore the tents from their stakes, catapulting them into a pool of more tents, bodies, and tattered rags that swirled, frenzied against the painted ultramarines and violets of the sky. Like someone had taken a carefully coated canvas and haphazardly splotched on multi-colored specks and blobs with their fingers. Had he also felt the gale whistle through his hair, and her icy touch on his barely-there cheeks? Did it feel like an invitation to him? A challenge to traverse a new space in which nothing existed but absence. Where there was no pain. And people danced to the crystal tune of silence.

“Bucky,” a voice called. A siren.

Dance. Bucky could dance, yeah. He was fuckin’ good at it.

“Bucky! Get out of there!”

Bucky remembered dancing with gals and dames. At the dance hall. Red lips, pink cheeks, and swaying skirts. Before the war. Before he lost Steve. _Steve._ He wanted to dance with Steve. Had always wanted to dance with Steve…

Steve. Steve. Steve.

“Your gun’s on the ground by your feet!”

Gun? Images of Steve with a gun flashed in his mind. What would Steve need a gun for?

“Bucky, for God’s sake! We’re under attack!”

Jones.

The war.

_The Germans._

He jumped to his feet, grabbing his sniper gun and mindlessly following Jones to convene with the other soldiers.

A grenade hit the dirt and exploded three meters behind him.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Tune in next time for Steve's reappearance! Things get juicy after Bucky gets captured by Hydra.


	3. Between Stitches

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bucky gets captured by Hydra, and the Howling Commandos start to become a thing. Sort of.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know it's been a while since the last update, but I can assure you that I am fully committed to the completion of this story. It will happen! Preferably before the year ends. On a more concrete note, at the pace I'm going it seems there will be a chapter every month. Please bear with me, I'm a student and my health hasn't been the best lately so I'm working a lot slower than I would like. I sincerely thank all of you who have been patient until now. I know I said comments were appreciated, but that you even take the time to read this silly story is all the motivation I need. Even if only one person read it, that'd be enough. I thank you again.

 

**-One Weeks Later-**

 

It was hot. Too hot. And there was fire in his veins.

A sharp pain pulsed along the inside of Bucky’s skull, thrumming against his forehead like a drill against boiling concrete on a summer’s day.

Bucky growled in pain, eyes closed and fists clenched as he struggled against the restraints that held him down on the metal cot. His breath was ragged and his heart rate had increased two-fold, but that was nothing compared to the desperation he felt from being unable to deter the pin-pricks draining away his strength.

The longer he spent hooked up to the machine––with its incessant whirring and thrumming––the harder he found it to think straight. To _remember._

 

Shelbyville, Indiana. 1928. His father had come home after months away at the reserve base, and Bucky was at the kitchen table with a then four-year old Becca, who’d been eating cooked oats in her high chair. As much as he knew his mother tried to keep the marital wrangles quiet, George Barnes’ yells carried down from the second floor––through the paper-thin walls––and all Bucky could do to shield Becca from the noise was to tell her to eat her oats and then cover her ears with his clammy palms.

The truth about Bucky’s father was this–– when he came home after a long period of service, he brought only three things with him: the clothes on his back, a bottle of booze, and his favorite gun. His wife, Winifred, never could tolerate his drunken reappearances, and never failed to let him know it. In turn, he’d snap, throw around insults, reproaches, and filthy words that echoed in Bucky’s mind long after they’d been uttered, and the stench of whiskey and sweaty uniforms had settled into the crevices of their home, to be forgotten like dust amongst the empty picture frames that lined every unused surface of their small living room.

For some unknown reason––though George Barnes seldom did anything with sense at the forefront of his scattered mind–– he never resorted to physical violence. His preferred brand of torture had always been emotional pain; and his prime targets––the especially weak.

Bucky remembers such exertion of power clearly––remembers the heavy boots that would shake the house with every step as George climbed down the stairs. He remembers his voice––rough and drawled––with the power to saturate in the air, liquify, and become a poison to all who heard it.

“Your mother’s a goddam whore,” he’d said to Bucky once, taking another swig of his half-empty bottle. “Don’t make the mistake I made, boy, and get yourself an obedient wife. Not one who’ll slut around town, like the one I got landed with.”

George Barnes had had a tendency to laugh at his own insipid jokes, and then had been no exception, so Bucky––poor Bucky––shot right up to his feet, throwing all 85 pounds of prepubescent weight into a punch aimed at his father’s jugular, and getting only as far as caressing the stubbly flesh with his brittle knuckles before being thrown right off like a ragdoll.

“You stupid punk,” his father yelled, spreading his thick, calloused fingers against the musty floral wallpaper. “That all you got? Huh?”

The taunts smelled of liquor, and if he’d tried again, Bucky was sure he could’ve done a number on the man before the towering figure collapsed from inebriation on its own, but Bucky had never been a coward. George Barnes would have his comeuppance one day, of that Bucky had no doubt–– and he did, unexpectedly in the Summer of ‘31, whilst training with new Stark tech explosives against Captain’s orders.

If there was anything for which Bucky would ever give Howard Stark credit, it was this: being the only goddamn fool, both genius and reckless enough to construct highly volatile weapons able to wipe even George Barnes’ smug grin off his face.

It’d be three long years before that occurred though, and in the interim, Bucky quickly learned that attempting to flee his father was moot. For one, he could never leave his mother and sister at the mercy of such a monster; secondly, wherever Bucky went, his father’s scalding words still burned a hole in his chest from which his tender insides––all those boyhood dreams and aspirations–– would spill.

“My son––the fucking pansy. God, what did I do to deserve this? Stupid fuck…”

And Bucky never told anyone that he’d crawl down to the cellar and cry himself to sleep when it got hard and the bravado began to peel away like layers on an onion. He never owned up to it, even years later when Becca confessed to having seen him sniffling alone in the dark.

This was the type of power his father held. The power to break people down.

Whether he wanted to admit it or not, it had also been his father who instilled in him an aversion for the _different_ , and _abnormal_. It was the burning desire to prove him wrong—to show George Barnes up—that hardened him and closed him off from the world and its many wondrous, albeit unconventional, possibilities.

These were the fragments of his life he wished he _could_ forget, but at the end of the tunnel there’s gotta be a light, and there was just so much more worth remembering. So many important memories he still needed to hold onto, and _christ_ be damned if he was made to let go of them when memories were all he had left.

 

“James. Buchanan. B-Barnes. 3.2.5.5.7..0...3...8…. James. Buch-anan. B––. 3...2...5….5….”

“Increase the power, Doctor.”

“It is of no use; he has been worn out. We need another vessel.”

“Doctor, I have no need for weak soldiers. Increase the power.”

“If we feed the machine more energy it will burn him alive.”

“Fine, do what you must. But I want _him,_ Doctor. Keep him monitored.”

“As you command, Sir.”

Bucky’s ears rang with the echo of a closed door. He tried to listen for the clicking of gears or an engine––something familiar, like the gargles and hiccups of the presses at the factory, but all he heard was the smooth humming of machinery, unlike anything he’d ever heard. He could feel the ground vibrating steadily, evenly spaced beats in short, powerful bursts with a force sure to make the walls cave in and send him falling through multiple floors of concrete, and onto beds of flattened daisies.

Were there even daisies in... _where_ was he? Italy? Germany?

He tried to open his eyes but his sight was fogged and the lights overhead made his head spin. To make matters worse, whatever was fucking with his brain was also sending back flashes of the night he first shipped out, and the nausea he’d felt on the boat, after leaving behind––

“S-Steve.”

“I’m shutting off the machine,” said a small male voice, peculiarly accented. Not German. Not Russian either.

Another body came into view, hovering over Bucky’s splayed form and shielding him from the light. A black silhouette, or rather a _blob._ The man was masked and suited, each fleshy feature covered from head to toe, to where it could’ve actually been a completely alien or synthetic being and Bucky wouldn’t even know it.

“Remove his restraints and take him back to the cells.”

The wiring that had been attached to him came undone and the clasps around his wrists and ankles snapped open. Without even waiting for him to get his head back on straight, Bucky was torn off the cot by large arms that got him on his feet and dragged him to the door; his head rolling on his shoulders. If they hadn’t already made it quite clear that he was just a body to be used and abused, they did now. _Comfort be damned._  

Bucky counted three floors.

Sixty-nine steps.

By the time he got to fifty-four he was able to support the weight of his own head, even if the rest of his body was having a hard time catching up. Every other step, a pain like electricity shot up from his left leg to his lower spine.

“Barnes!” He heard a relieved voice say once they arrived at the basement level, where the prisoners were being kept. He had been down here once before.

“Hey, Buddy. Are you alright? Whadda they do to you?”

 _Dugan_.

Bucky was shoved violently into one of the cells, and he clumsily stretched out his arms to brace himself for the impact that never came. Someone got their hands on him before he could earn himself a concussion.

“Thanks,” he mumbled, groggily.

“One of these days it’ll be you behind these bars, and you won’t like it one bit,” he heard Dugan call out–– to one of the guards presumably–– before adding, “That’s right, keep walking.”

Bucky was helped down to the floor to sit with his legs stretched and his head against metal rods that grew like weeds from the concrete up to the iron mesh landing of the floor above. He could see the soles of guards’ boots overhead, trickling from one end of the landing to the other, and then back again. The sound their pacing made reminded him of raindrops hitting the metal roofs of the scrap factory back in Brooklyn, only heavier and far less rhythmic. Nothing at all like the peaceful rain he’d grown accustomed to.

“They never leave,” the man who’d helped him down said.

Bucky’s head spun as he followed the buttons of the man’s uniform all the way up to his red beret––British, probably from the group that had helped them with the raid against the Italians the day they were captured––and a brown leather jacket with straps that blossomed outwards from his chest over his shoulders and around his torso.

The man smiled gently as he caught Bucky’s stare. “Major James Montgomery Falsworth of the British Armed Forces,” he said, tipping his hat with regal flair.

Carelessly, Bucky jostled his leg and closed his eyes from the sudden pain.

“Y-yeah, I figured,” he said with labored breath.

“Ridiculous!” Falsworth exclaimed with a chuckle for punctuation. “What gave it away?”

And for that familiar, very much missed taste of sarcasm, Bucky cracked a smile. “The uniform––been seeing it all over Italy. Even haunts my dreams now.”

Falsworth nodded, an understanding glint in his bloodshot eyes.

“B’sides, with the accent you never know.”

“The accent?”

“I was told the Germans are trained to wear the lips of their enemies. Could be a spy.”

Falsworth’s smile faltered defensively at that. “I could say the same for you, Mr. _American._ ”

Bucky felt a silence overtaking the space between their mangled bodies––his from unknown torture, and Falsworth’s from combat, most likely. “I guess we’ll have to trust blindly in one another, then,” he said, extending a calloused hand for a shake––a peace offering. “Nice to meet you, James. I’m James _Barnes_.”

Falsworth eyed the outstretched appendage with curiosity before taking it. The smile that had fluttered off his lips returned to his face. “The pleasure is mine, _James_ Barnes.”

“Now that we’ve made new friends,” Dugan said from the adjacent cell, flatly. “Mind if I ask what the hell they did to you in there?”

Bucky made to turn and face him, but the pain in his spine came back doubled, and he gave up midway. “I’m not exactly sure.”

“What do you mean? Did they knock you out with drugs? They didn’t cut into you, did they?” Dugan’s eyes raked his form, inspecting.

Bucky grimaced. He sure as hell hoped not. “Not that I can tell.”

“You don’t sound sure.”

“I don’t know how long I was in there. Feels like hours, but could’ve been days.”

“Three, to be exact.”

Bucky did a double-take.

He remembered being picked out of a line of men as soon as they arrived the day the strike happened. Out of the several hundred prisoners, only about thirty had been taken to the upper levels of the enemy compound. After the second day they’d been narrowed down even further to ten men–– mostly those who had put up a fight or had been healthy enough to endure the effects of some nondescript substance they’d been forced to ingest. Bucky didn’t know what it had been for, so he’d refused to take it, even when the others complied out of fear. It was then that he was dragged away and tied to a cot, and was made to take the liquid against his will. His memory after that was a bit fuzzy. He remembered going in and out of consciousness several times, but as far as he knew he always came to within minutes.   

 “That can’t be right.”

Dugan shrugged, apologetic. “Hate to break it to you, buddy. Something’s going on in this place, I don’t know what, but it’s got that lovely smell of rat.”

“Huh, I guess it’s true what they say,” said a voice from across the cell block, suddenly. “ Rats _can_ identify their kind anywhere.”

Some of the men within earshot sneered at the out-of-place remark.

Bucky followed the voice––the familiar American cadence–– but couldn’t identify a face in the dark. He squinted but was only able to make out an outline of medium stature and slim build.

“Who the fuck are you?” Dugan growled.

The man leaned against the bars, wrapping each hand around a rod. “What’s it to ya?”

“Listen, buddy. No one calls me a rat and gets away with it.”

The man snorted. “I only call them as I see it. But if you must know, name’s Jim Morita. Figure you should at least have that to call when I have you begging for mercy later.”

“Oh, I can’t _fucking wait_ to get out of this cell,” Dugan spat.

Bucky rolled his eyes, incredulous at how easily Dugan fell for empty taunts. A newborn could tell he was being fucked with, why couldn’t _he_?

“I didn’t know the Japs were fighting on this front,” Falsworth chimed in, voice pitchy with uncertainty.

Morita scoffed. “First of all, _your highness,_ ”Japs” is a derogatory term my people don’t respond to. Secondly, I’m from California.”

Falsworth shrugged. “I presume that’s in America.”

“The U.S. of A, my friend,” Dugan said, proudly, putting a hand over his chest and then turning back to Morita to shove an accusatory finger in his direction. “Don’t think I’m done with you yet.”

As the two resumed bickering back and forth like old friends, another spasm shot through Bucky. His hand immediately flew to grasp the nearest person––Falsworth–– and squeeze his bicep.

“What’s wrong, Barnes?” Falsworth said, steadying him by the shoulder.

“M-my back,” he stuttered. “It feels like it’s on fire.”

“Maybe you strained a muscle, or a nerve.”

“I don’t think so,” he said. “I was fine before the attack, and I haven’t exactly been active since.”

Falsworth nodded. “I don’t know how I can help, but if you need something I’m here.”

“Thanks,” he said with a slight groan.

Falsworth smiled, tenderness reaching his eyes. “We need to look out for one another here. How else will we make it out, right?”

“Right,” Bucky said, clapping the man on his shoulder with his good hand.

But he didn’t have the confidence that they would. Least of all _him,_ seeing the state he was in.

In the meantime, he’d have to make do with Falsworth’s abundant supply of optimism to make up for the scarcity of his own.

He sure as hell needed it.

 

Two days pass like this: Bucky and Falsworth exchanging anecdotes from back home, and trying to get a name out of the Frenchman in their cell who, after hours of fruitless attempts, finally coughed one up–– something that sounded like _Dernier,_ but Bucky insisted on pronouncing _there-yeah,_ much to the man’s annoyance. It wasn’t Bucky’s fault he’d never excelled in French. The closest he’d ever been to the language or the people who spoke it was that one Christmas, shortly after his father’s death, that his cousins from Quebec came to visit. Seemed like with him gone they finally had a reason to. Not that Bucky blamed them for having stayed away. Not at all.

Dugan and Morita had also finally gotten over their differences and spent the better part of their time locked up chatting at each other across the passage––throwing words around that might have led to interesting conversation if not for the other answering back with idiocies of his own. They got along so well that their prattling came to annoy the guards, who threatened to take them up to the third floor if they didn’t shut up.

Nobody had any idea what was on the third floor, not even Bucky who had been there himself; all anyone knew was that going there was a bad idea and that they were better off staying below in the cells where at the very least they’d be together.

Ever since Bucky was returned, the guards have been picking prisoners seemingly at random every ten or so hours and hauling them upstairs, never to be seen again. In fact, according to Falsworth, Bucky had been the only one to have ever be brought back––and when Bucky heard that, the sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach that alerted him to something crucial, flared to life.

 _Why had he been returned?_ Deep down he felt he knew the answer, and that suspicion grew further with every furtive glance he intercepted from the guards. Several times he’d caught them looking right at him, only to sweep their gazes over his head toward the other prisoners and pretend to not have noticed him.

Bucky studied them intently, watching their patterns––their rotations, and shift changes. Noticed how they would inch only the tiniest bit closer in his direction when he disappeared behind Dernier or Falsworth.

“Six inches to the left,” Falsworth would mutter under his breath, to keep Bucky informed of the guards’ positions when he couldn’t see them for himself.

This was a test.

“Two to the right. Get behind Dernier.”

A pause.

“Four to the left, one to the front.”

“How many?”

“One. The rest have their backs turned.”

Just as Bucky was about to ask about the guards overhead, the screechy wheels of half a dozen metal trolleys squeaked into their hearing range.

Feeding time. Twice a day, the guards came over with their stupid little trolleys to throw moldy bread rolls at them, and refill their basins with river water.

Bucky supposed that was a mercy since they could’ve just as easily given them unsanitary water to drink, which they’d _have_ to drink unless they wanted to die of dehydration. Otherwise, they ate like beggars, ravenously devouring every last crumb, hoping that it would hold them over one more day.

Bucky had already seen many men be carried off to die––that was part of the deal that came with fighting a war, but it was somehow more brutal here in the cells than out on the field. If someone happened to perish in their sleep, then their body would lay there, unmoved, until morning. From what Bucky could gauge of the screams in the middle of the night, it wasn’t at all pleasant to wake up next to someone who used to be called friend, to find them cold and pale mere inches away, and with empty eyes staring right back at you.

That was the stuff of nightmares. The kind of stuff that haunted you long after wars had been fought.

“I’m going to try something,” Bucky whispered, getting to his knees–– but not without effort. “Watch him.”

When the trolley stopped at their cell, all of the men inside––excluding Bucky––jostled against each other as they made their way towards the bars to catch a piece of bread. Bucky waited only until his piece had hit the ground to scramble over on the floor and pick it up, and gingerly wipe off the dirt on his shirt. His mouth watered, but Bucky had a question that needed answers––and for the moment this urgency preceded any other that his body might have.

“Hey, _there-yeah_ ,” he called.

The Frenchman, who had already devoured his portion and was laying back against the bars, groggily looked his way.

A few hours ago he had caused a ruckus when he began taunting one of the guards, not realizing that the man had understood every bloody insult and jibe. Dernier took a baton to the stomach over a dozen times and hasn’t been feeling quite up to par since.

“There might be some internal bleeding,” Falsworth had suggested at the time.

And one look at the miserable fellow was all Bucky needed to be in agreement.

“Take mine,” he said, offering him the sorry looking roll.

Without so much as a word, Dernier lunged for the bread and shoved it in his mouth with the same vigor and appetite with which he’d eaten the first.

Bucky watched both fondly and desirously as the man took care to not drop even a crumb, covering his mouth with both hands as he chewed. His own stomach rumbled at the sight.

“You sure that was prudent?” Falsworth nudged him.

“Yeah,” Bucky said, looking away from the tempting display. “He needed it more than me.”

“The next feeding won’t be until tomorrow.” Bucky was reminded.

And he pretended to not have heard it. The faster he thought of pleasanter things, the quicker he’d forget about the protest happening in his gut.

Bucky’s eyes went back to the guards, registering every head tilt and eye twitch aimed in his direction.

 _That seems to have gotten their attention,_ he noted.

Then, laying back down on his side, he bemoaned with a loudness that he was sure would reach the men on the other end of the passage: “What’s the point of fighting the inevitable? We’re gonna die in this place; might as well happen sooner than later.”

“Hey, what the fuck are you saying, Barnes?” Dugan demanded to know, clenching the bars between his and Bucky’s cell.

Falsworth, who had first looked at him curiously, seemed to catch onto what he was doing and went along with the act.

“Barnes, are you sure?”

He nodded. “Surer than I’ve ever been. I’ll just lay here––” he said, now laying flat on his back “And go to sleep. Do me a favor, and don’t wake me, ‘kay?”

“Fucker, get up!” Dugan hollered.

“Leave him,” Morita said, waving a hand dismissively.

Falsworth’s eyes peeled away from Bucky’s form to follow the sneaky steps that soundlessly made their way to their cell door, before snapping back to the man beside him and communicating all the icy eyes wanted to know.

Bucky’s lips quirked up slightly at the ends before neutralizing into a firm line.

“Hey! You,” one of the guards said, sliding his baton from bar to bar, producing a sound that rattled in everyone’s ears. “Stand.”

Bucky groaned. “What if I don’t wanna?”

The guard snarled. “You have no choice. I’ll make you.”

Bucky tentatively got up on one elbow. “What do ya care? What’s another dead body, anyway?”

The guard’s mouth opened and closed before settling on a response that Bucky was sure had been carefully strung together.

“My orders are for me to know and follow––I don’t ask questions.”

Bucky’s left eyebrow rose at that. “What might the big, bad boss gain from keeping someone like me alive? Didn’t give a rat’s ass about the five men who died here just last night.”

“ _Rats_ ,” Morita echoed back with a snicker.

“Not that again,” Bucky heard Dugan whine in the background.

“That’s none of your business, now get up or I’ll get in there and tie your arms to the ceiling if I have to.”

“I know you’ve been told to keep an eye on me. Those were your orders, weren’t they?” Bucky pushed back. The question hung in the air.

It happened all so fast then. The guard rattled the cell door open and three more came down from the floor above to assist their comrade.

Bucky got to his feet, as did Falsworth, and even Dernier–– and the three pushed back against the guards together. Meanwhile, the other prisoners cheered and roared from their cells, and threw their fists into the air as the spectacle unfurled.

Falsworth managed to get a guard in a headlock while Dernier and another prisoner dove to take on one who’d stepped into their water dish and slipped to the ground. There were two on Bucky, and for a minute he was overtaken, but the fifth prisoner––one who Bucky was sure hadn’t opened his eyes all day, except to be fed–– broke out of his dreamlike stupor in time to assist him and now they both had a guard each to wrestle with.

Bucky gritted his teeth through the pain wracking his body as he swung his fist, hitting the man straight across his jaw. The guard let out a grunt before turning his enraged eyes on him and swinging back.

The fight persisted almost three minutes before a shot was fired into the air and everyone stilled––all going silent.

“What is the meaning of this!”

“Sir!”

The guards took advantage of the loosened limbs around them to pull away and quickly make their way out of the cell, locking the door behind them, but not before Dernier could dive to grab onto the boots of the man who’d clubbed him earlier, and take a big bite out of him.

“Shmidt wants his prisoner,” a small, mousy-looking man wearing spectacles said. His tinny voice had no power, despite his clear command over the guards.

“This must be the rat you smelled, Dum-Dum,” Morita scoffed.

“Not now,” Dugan said, eyes locked on the new face.

The small man threw an irritated glance at both of them, but otherwise made no motion to address them.

“Has he been taken care of?”

“The prisoner?” the guard who’d been stationed at Bucky’s cell asked.

“No, the dogs,” the rat said, sarcasm dripping from his thin lips. “ Of course I mean the prisoner. Bring him forth. I must evaluate his condition.”

“If I may,” another, taller guard beside him said. “I’d like to recommend the Frenchman instead. He has shown no signs of deterioration since capture, and is still able to fight despite having suffered a beating earlier today. The other prisoner, on the other hand, has demonstrated a weak will to survive. He was even reported to have forfeited his daily ration.”

The rat’s eyes flickered between Bucky and Dernier, calculative.

“Show me,” he said, after a painful minute of silence.

Bucky’s jaw locked as three guards entered the cell once more and pulled Dernier out.

He was taken to the small man, held a meter away––precaution––and pushed down on his knees with arms held behind his back.

The rat moved forward and took the stubbly jaw in one hand, pushing it to the sides and around, to catch the light. “You are correct. He has a fire in his eyes, and his complexion is adequate. We’ll proceed with him, then. Come along.”

The guards hoisted Dernier up and began to follow the man away, but Bucky wasn’t going to have it. He jumped towards the bars, gripping them and pushing his face between the cold metal.

“Wait!” he shouted. “Take me instead.”

“What the fuck, Barnes. You’re crazy!”

Bucky ignored the accusation and reaffirmed his statement. “I’ll go with you willingly.”

The rat man turned on his heels, a disgusting grin on his lips. “Oh?”

“You’ve been keeping me watched. I want to know why.”

It took all of five seconds for the man to ponder his request, before turning to the guards and nodding silent instructions at them.

They brought Dernier back, and took hold of Bucky instead.

Dernier shot him a wary but appreciative glance as they passed through the cell––brushing shoulders as they were pushed in opposite directions.

A tug on Bucky’s arms, and he was snatched away from his comrades like he had the first day they arrived.

“Barnes, you’ll be okay. We’ll get you out of there somehow!” Dugan hollered after him.

Bucky only heard the shushed voice of Falsworth saying something back, as he rounded the corner and was hauled up the stairs.

 

He was back on the metal cot. Arms and legs strapped, and his bare back arched away from the cold surface. He tested the restraints once, discretely, and sure enough––they were impossibly secure.

“It was always you Shmidt wanted, but he wouldn’t tell me why,” the rat man said.

Bucky shot daggers at him with his eyes.

He laughed. “My name is Doctor Zola. I worked for the Nazis when Hitler recruited me over a decade ago, to aid him in his Lebensraum campaign. He needed weapons, and I supplied them. It was a mutually beneficial arrangement. I gave him what he wanted, and in return I was allowed to exercise my genius to become one of the world’s leading scientists. A dream long dreamed had finally become a reality.”

Bucky rolled his eyes. “Enough with the history lesson, gramps. Tell me why I’m here.”

Zola went over to a machine beside the cot and started picking at some wires.

“I _am_ , Mr. Barnes.”

“How do you know my name?”

A chuckle. “Shmidt knows everything––especially when it concerns his enemies.”

“Enemies?”

Zola’s eyes glanced briefly in his direction before returning to his machine.

“There is a man he is after, and you will help bring him to us.”

Before Bucky was allowed to ask more, Zola went on.

“In 1934, Shmidt–– impressed with my brilliant designs–– offered me a position by his side. Together we were meant to develop the most potent weapons ever created, but Shmidt had ambitions of his own that strayed from Hitler’s primitive visions, and before I knew it, I had a new leader to follow. This machine,” he said, motioning to the apparatus around them––one continuous train of wires and metal boxes, “is the key to fulfilling all his goals. With it, we will finally be able to put into effect the only weapon that Shmidt has long been unable to complete. Until now.”

Zola began clipping wires onto Bucky’s arms, legs, and torso. He’d already attached some to his temples and forehead prior, with the help of a guard who’d held his head down.

“And what? I suppose you’ll be cutting into me and replacing my limbs with these so called weapons, right? What kind of sick guy is this Shmidt?”

Zola laughed, the stupid wiry glasses falling lower on his nose. “No, no. None of that. The weapon in question will not be _attached_ to you, Mr. Barnes. It will be administered to you intravenously. _You_ will become the weapon.”

 _What the fuck is this fantastical crap?_ Bucky thought, now pulling on his restraints without care.

“Easy, now. The injections themselves will be painless––mostly, but the radiation exposure will biologically alter your cellular makeup, and that will––well, let’s just say you needn’t be in any more pain than you have to. I suggest you take deep breaths. You’ll need it.”

“Deep breaths my Indiana-born ass!”

“Shmidt is occupied elsewhere at the moment but has given me permission to proceed. He’ll be by later to examine the results and it would be in everyone’s interest to not disappoint him,” Zola warned.

“Like I give a shit what your stupid leader guy wants.”

“Don’t say I didn’t warn you,” the small man muttered under his breath.

Zola produced a syringe filled with what appeared to be a blue substance, but it could’ve been dyed water for all Bucky cared. He didn't want that thing anywhere near him––whatever it was.

Unfortunately, it seemed the needle would be penetrating the veins on his arms first, and there wasn’t anything a tied-up Bucky could do to prevent it from happening. The first injection went on his left arm. There were two others on that same arm, and then three more on the right one. His legs got a total of ten injections––five on each side––and Bucky was pleasantly surprised to confirm that indeed, the pain was minimal. In fact, even the pain in his spine was becoming a dull memory.

 _Is this doing that?_ He wondered. Were the injections healing the prior damage done to his body?

“Hold still, Mr. Barnes.”

Zola moved a saucer-like object over him. It was as wide as his shoulders and as long as his torso.

“This is where the serum I’ve administered will gain its power,” Zola explained. “Once the radiation has made contact with your body, your cells will begin to mutate, and you will become enhanced. Stronger. More resistant.”

“To w-what?” Bucky asked, his voice giving away his rattled nerves, though the sweat building up on his forehead had been doing a pretty good job of that for the last five or so minutes.

“Everything, Mr. Barnes. Wounds. Disease. Infection. Your body will become ten times more immune to the casualties and afflictions of the common man. Indeed, you are quite lucky.”

The strange tinge in the Doctor’s tone sounded a lot like envy, if Bucky said so himself. He imagined that this is what Steve’s words would taste like if he too could watch Bucky become even stronger than he already was, while Steve stayed exactly the same. Small, vulnerable, biologically compromised.

Steve had often made it known that he was envious of Bucky. Envious of the way Bucky could get a dame to dance with him every night. Envious that he could work two, three jobs at once. Envious that he could enlist on his first attempt and call it a day. Envious that he didn’t have to live life tip-toeing every line––worried that he would fall and break every bone in his fragile body, or succumb to a disease that consumed him faster than it did anyone else.

If he could see Bucky now––the unwilling recipient of this magical _weapon_ that could give him everything Steve had ever wanted for himself––what would he _say?_ How would Steve feel?

Well, Bucky felt like shit. Shit because he didn’t want it in the first place, but also because of the contempt bubbling in his gut–– contempt for being bequeathed an opportunity Steve would lay down anything for. He felt guilty that it didn’t mean nearly as much to him as it would to his best friend. As illogical as it sounded, even to his own mind, he felt like he was taking something that should have belonged to Steve, and only Steve. That once in a lifetime opportunity that could have fallen in either man’s court, but had unfairly landed onto his own.

 “I will ignite the machine now. Relax. Everything will happen quickly. You might feel a bit winded and out of sorts, but that too shall pass.”

The machines promptly hummed to life––yes, that familiar sound that Bucky had faintly registered the first time he was here. So that’s what it had been. Had he already been subjected to this machine before? Was that how the pain in his spine pain had begun?

“I’ve been here before,” he mumbled, eyes blinded by the sudden lights overhead.

“This is not your first time being administered the serum,” Zola confessed. “You were in worse condition than you should have been the first time through, so I recommended you be allowed time to rest before proceeding. The serum, when not activated promptly, slowly disintegrates in the bloodstream and must be administered again, which is why you were given a second dose. You are much more lucid than before, so I am convinced the radiative catalyzation will go uninterrupted now.”

“Fuck, I can’t believe this is happening,” Bucky growled. “Stupid Germans––”

“I’m Swiss.”

“Stupid Swiss rats––stupid nazis with their stupidly crazy inventions––”

“Without further ado, then.” Zola switched on a lever.

And that’s when it happened. A thrumming blue glow balled up overhead from the saucer-like contraption, concentrating into something that looked solid but Bucky bet five bucks he could probably put his hands through.

Zola, who’d already put on his protective eyewear, was now behind a glass room where another machine like the one beside the metal cot sat, covered in buttons and levers, and a myriad of foreign symbols.

“I’ll increase the power to 30 percent.”

Bucky felt his insides heating up––burning. It was in his veins, the serum, and whatever was happening, it was putting pressure on his nerves. Expanding. Pressing. A sharp pain on his left temple. A pain on his lower spine. Another in his abdomen. Then his calves, and his biceps. Everywhere.

He was being ripped apart from the inside.

“50 percent.”

A growl tore its way out of his throat.

“70 percent. You’re almost there, Mr. Barnes. Resist.”

The words fell on deaf ears. Not that they’d do much good to him anyway.

“80 percent.”

Bucky shuddered––his muscles spasming. He gritted his teeth, breathing in through the gaps. No good. He tried it through his nostrils. Still not enough.

Deep breaths, Bucky. Come on. His jaw slackened, and chest expanded with one shaky intake of air. Hold it. Hold it Hold it. Release. Gone too soon.

“90 percent. We’ve almost done it!”

But before he could make it past the last hurdle, the lights went out.

“No, no! This cannot be!” Zola panicked. “We were _there,_ almost there!”

There was a frantic pushing of buttons, but nothing changed. The saucer was dead.

“Get your things, Doctor. We are leaving.”

A voice––strong and thunderous. Bucky was too dazed to see to who it belonged.

“Sir–– I. Wait, why did you remove the cube? Why didn’t you let me finish the catalyzation? We almost had it.”

“Don’t reproach me, Zola. Quickly, we must leave. Come.”

“But what about the prisoner?”

“Leave him. We’ll find someone else.”

“What is happening, Sir?”

The unknown man paused, looking around him at the machinery and then lingering on Bucky for a few moments before turning to Zola. “It seems our objective has decided to prematurely seek us out. I’ve already initiated the emergency counter-measures. The buildings will go up in flames in fifteen minutes-–we must be gone before then.”

Without another word, Zola grabbed his things and followed the man out the door, stopping momentarily at the doorway to eye his creation one last time before scurrying away like the rat he was.

Bucky groaned, and began tugging at the straps on his wrists, but it was fruitless. He was too weakened, and even with his full strength, he doubted he’d be able to get out.

He laid back down, head throbbing, and eyes closed.

_Keep your head straight, come on._

“James Buchanan Barnes. 32557038.”

_Again._

“James Buchanan B-Barnes. 32557038.”

_Again._

“James Barnes. 32557038.”

_Again._

“Bucky Barnes. 32557...”

_This is stupid._

_“_ I’m fucking James Barnes, from Brooklyn.” Pause. “I have a little sister named Becca.” Pause. “And a best friend named Steve.”

_Please someone, hear me._

“I’m an asshole. Left the people I care about behind to fight in this stupid war, and now I’m gonna die. I’ve let everyone down.”

And wasn’t that the truth? When Becca learns he let himself be captured and experimented on, she’ll bring him back from the dead just so she can kill him herself. And when Steve learns how quickly he gave up––stopped fighting, he’ll be so...so... _Steve._ He’ll be so disappointed in him.

“I don’t wanna––”

_What? What don’t you want, huh?_

“I don’t wanna die,” said the small, fearful voice within him.

The lights flickered back on.

Footsteps. Tentative. Distant. Heavy.

His ears perked up more. Had someone come to get him? Maybe the fellas had done good on their promise and escaped. Or was it Zola again–– with that other guy? Shmidt?

His heart dropped.

_No, please no._

“Buck?”

_God, have mercy. That’s the last voice I want to hear right now._

“Buck?” The voice again. Unmistakably _his._

Bucky closed his eyes again, tight.

_This is a dream. This is a dream. I’m not really here. I’m not––_

_“_ Bucky, it’s me. Steve.”

“Steve?”

Warm hands came to rest on his shoulder, snapping him out of his stupor. Blue eyes. Blue as the sky looking down at him. Ready to liberate him.

Or pass judgement.

“Yeah, buddy. Steve. Come on, let’s get you outta here.”

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh, Bucky. Always thinking of little Stevie.  
> ____
> 
> Anyway, so I said last Chapter that Steve would be coming back. Technically, I didn't lie. Oops.  
> His presence in Chapter 4 is going to be palpable though, so yeah. Please don't lynch me. Thanks.


	4. Tangled Thread

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Steve has gotten more brazen, if that's even possible, and Bucky has undergone some character growth.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This one is about half a month late. I'm in the middle of finals week and school is almost out for the semester, so I'll be back to full efficiency soon.

 

 

**-The Next Day-**

 

Bucky didn’t know what to say.

“Wait, wait wait! _Captain America_ is your childhood friend?” Dugan chortled.

“No, his _best_ friend,” Falsworth corrected.

“That explains why you turned sour when Wade made those stupid jokes, huh Barnes?” Jones asked, cleaning his gun.

“What happened with Wade?” Dugan said, brows turned down in question.

“Bucky almost tore him a new one, that’s what.”

“No way! Barnes, you did that?”

“Who’s Wade?” Morita chimed in.

“Okay, guys, give it a rest!” Bucky said, holding his head in both hands. There was too much noise. Too much talking.

Dugan elbowed Morita playfully. “Think he’s embarrassed?”

Morita rolled his eyes. “He’s not the only one.”

“By the way, Barnes,” Jones said, ignoring the ensuing banter of the two men on his right. “I seem to recall you not having a clue who Captain America was when we said his name that night at the river. I take that to mean you didn’t know about your friend being him, then.”

Bucky rubbed circles on his temples. “No, I didn’t. Last I saw Steve he was in Brooklyn. Next thing I knew, I was receiving letters from New York with his name on them. He’d gotten a volunteer job there––something medical–– before he broke contact.”

Jones nodded knowingly, cradling his weapon like a newborn and taking a rag tenderly to the barrel.

“So where is the star-spangled man now?” Falsworth queried.

“Debriefing with Colonel Phillips,” Bucky said. If a sigh passed through his lips no one mentioned it. “We haven’t really had time to ourselves since the rescue.”

Falsworth placed a sturdy hand on his shoulder. “Well, I imagine he’ll be a very busy man from here on out. Don’t take it personally.”

“It’s not that,” Bucky clarified, quickly. “I just...would like some explanations, you know?”

The scrunched muscles between Falsworth’s brows relaxed. “Yes, I understand.”

“So how is Dernier doing?” Dugan said, changing the topic, much to Bucky’s relief.

“Still with the medic. Seems he’ll be alright, but he needs to rest for a few weeks. His ribs really took a beating.”

“Sounds like it could have been a lot worse.”

“I’m still amazed we got away at all. Won’t ever forget what your friend did for us, Barnes. We owe him our lives,” Dugan said, tenderness rolling off him in waves.

Morita, Jones, and Falsworth nodded, a silent agreement passing between them.

Bucky felt warmed by their words. His chest swelled.

“So, who’s up for some rum?” Dugan enthused.

Nobody turned his offer down.

 

They stayed out until the stars began to shed their covers in the cobalt sky, and one by one, the tents around them lit up with the glow from kerosene lamps. At some point Dugan had whipped out his harmonica and played a few tunes, but during the fourth song, everyone’s heads were rolling around on their necks, eyes drifting closed, and nobody could make out a melody to save their lives. Even Dugan’s playing became sloppy. Disconnected.

“I’m calling it a night ,” Bucky said, jumping off the low fence on which he was sitting, and made his way toward the tent he shared with Falsworth and Jones. It was nice that they’d been able to spend some time together after the rescue.

Bucky had been afraid that as soon as they returned, they’d all promptly get their orders and go their separate ways. Dernier back to fighting with the French Resistance, Falsworth to his post in the British Army, and Jones...well it was yet to be seen if the 92nd would be taking him back.

“It’s still early,” Jones said.

“It’s been a long day.”

“I think I’ll head in as well,” Dugan chimed in, having stopped his harmonics. “Been looking forward to some proper shut-eye.”

“I think we all have,” added Morita. “I’ll be heading off then.”

And with a short salute, he was off.

“I’m going to check on Dernier,” Falsworth said, and also made his way to leave.

Bucky left Jones and Dugan chatting outside as he ambled through the tent and fell face down on his cot. When his nose collided with a much firmer surface than he had anticipated, he regretted that decision.

“Fuck,” he muttered, rolling on his side and grasping the throbbing flesh with his right hand.

He took a deep breath, closed his eyes, and decided to wait for the pain to dissipate by naming all the towns they’d stopped in since their arrival in Italy.

When the pain finally abated, Bucky really tried to go to sleep––his body ached for it––but his mind was running marathons and wouldn’t _shut up_.

How could he sleep after what had happened? He finally reunited with Steve but hasn’t been able to speak a word to him in nearly the whole day.

He sat up abruptly, the motion sending his head swirling.

“If he’s not going to see me, then I’ll just have to go to him.” He reasoned alone.

He quickly got to his feet, not waiting to be able to see straight before marching out.

When Dugan and Jones saw him exit the tent again, they looked at him with puzzled eyes–– but otherwise let him be. They only started calling after him when he walked by them briskly and without acknowledgement, headed in the north-western direction of the Colonel’s tent.

“Hey, where ya headed?”

“Barnes?”

It wasn’t a very far walk, in fact he could see his destination from where he stood, but the distance still felt like miles, making the gap between him and Steve seem insurmountable.

The Bucky of now was gaunt, tired, and bitter. And Steve––well...he was the opposite.

All traces of the Stevie he knew were gone––or at least hidden underneath his new, bulging physique. All those rippling muscles. That chiseled face.

Steve had been pretty before, but now he looked like something out of Greek mythology.

And his presence was commanding to boot. With a heart as big as the ocean, and a sense of justice so impenetrable, it only made all the sense in the world that he’d have gotten a body to match that large and unabating fervor. It was almost poetic.

How would Bucky be able to catch up with him now?

When they arrived back at camp after the rescue, Bucky hadn’t missed how the other soldiers looked at Steve––Captain America––with reverence and respect. Even Colonel Phillips, who Bucky knew to be particularly stoic and hard to please, had regarded the suited hero with a glint of pride in his eyes.

This new Steve’s power went beyond being able to lift trucks and block bullets. It was a power all his own from deep beneath the layers of the red, white, and blue he wore. Deeper than flesh.

“Sergeant Barnes,” Colonel Phillips said, disrupting his train of thought. “What brings you here?”

Bucky ducked his head meekly.

He hadn’t realized just how far his legs had carried him. It seemed he’d waltzed in like he was coming home to his apartment, and not trespassing into a high ranking official’s tent in the middle of what might’ve been a classified meeting.

“Buck?”

The embarrassment kicked in one second too late. “This a bad time?” he said, sheepishly.

Phillips grunted, displeased, as Steve’s face softened into its natural countenance.

“We were just finished,” Phillips said, grabbing his hat and brushing past Bucky. “I’ll leave you two to get caught up.”

Without sparing either men a second glance, he left, Bucky’s eyes unwittingly trailing after him.

“How are you feeling?”

The sound of Steve’s voice made Bucky jump. It’d been so long since he heard it that it almost sounded jarring to his ears––foreign.

“Better,” Bucky answered, fraily. He cleared his throat. “It’s been a long week.”

“Yes, it has.”

The tent was engulfed in a painfully thick silence.

Bucky dug the toe of his boot into the dirt, and looked down at his feet. “You stopped writing.”

Well, there it was. The first accusation. Out in the open.

Bucky didn’t dare look up to see the changes in Steve’s expression.

For a moment he was afraid Steve wouldn’t respond, but the sound of soft footsteps carried over to him and then there was a hand on his arm, and Bucky had no choice but to look up into the warm, blue eyes peering down at him.

Steve was now taller than Bucky, not by a lot––one or two inches––but it was weird. The angle was different and yet the eyes were the same. The nose too. And the lips. But they were framed by a larger, more square jaw, and everything felt so much bigger. That wasn’t even taking into account the clearly thick neck on which his head rested, the wide torso, prominent arms, and strong legs.

Steve could probably envelop Bucky in his arms and cover every square inch of his body with his own now.

Bucky felt himself moving back.

“No excuses?”

Steve’s brows furrowed. “I think it’s pretty clear what happened, don’t you?”

Ah. So Steve was going to play _this_ game?

“Look, I know we didn’t split on exactly the best terms, but I thought that after what we’ve both been through, you’d at least be honest with me this once. A lot has changed. _You_ , for starters.” He gestured at Steve’s new body with an overexcited hand wave.

“So you better give it to me straight, Steve. Now. Or I’ll walk out of here and God knows when I’ll have the courage to speak to you again.”

The two held each other’s gaze intently, neither wavering until Bucky finally had to blink.

 _Stupid Steve._ What? Was he too good for blinking now? _Bastard didn’t even flinch_.

“I’m sorry,” Steve said, his voice low.

Bucky watched him shuffle most of his weight onto his left leg, and did a double take. “W-what?”

“I said I’m sorry, Buck. I don’t know what I’m doing. _Been_ doing. And I can’t for the life of me justify why I’ve tried keeping things from you either, I just––”

“Just?”

Steve’s lower lip quivered. “I was scared, okay? Before the war, before you found me and Stark––well, you already know––but before everything started changing, I was afraid of messing us up. I never once considered that maybe lying and keeping secrets was worse than telling you the truth. Of all the potential outcomes that I entertained, losing your friendship was the one I couldn’t bear.”

Bucky curled his fingers into his clammy palms. “A-and?”

“And I figured that if I only told you pieces of the truth, I wouldn’t exactly be lying. When I tried to enlist in New York after Howard’s convention, met Dr. Erskine, and he offered me a shot, I took it without bothering with the details. I was so excited, Buck,” Steve said in his still small voice, but eyes gleaming. “I only realized later what I’d gotten myself into, but by then I’d already signed the papers. I wasn’t allowed to say a word.”

“You were under contract, you couldn’t help it.”

Steve shook his head, sadly. “You’re wrong. I––I mean, I _was_ under contract, but I still can’t bring myself to rationalize why I didn’t find a loophole. You were–– _are––_ my best friend, and we were living together, so you deserved to know the truth––whatever I could divulge–– and I didn’t even _try._ ”

Bucky swallowed.

“As more time passed, the more I thought that there was no reason for you to know. What good would that have done anyway? You would’ve only worried.”

“Yeah, well I’m worried _now_ , Steve.” Bucky tilted his chin up, defiant. “What good did your secrecy do? You’re still the same dumb punk as ever, muscles or no muscles.”

The comment wasn’t meant to be playful but Steve still cracked a semblance of a smile. “Jerk.”

And then Bucky couldn’t help the grin spreading across his face either.

It felt nice, Bucky thought. Being on the receiving end of one of Steve’s familiar smiles. He hadn’t realized how much he’d missed them. How much––

“I missed you,” Steve said, reaching out to pull Bucky against him and wrap two strong arms around his shoulders.

Bucky tentatively circled his own around the bigger man’s slim but hard waist.

“Me too,” he said, voice muffled by the fabric of Steve’s uniform.

Bucky savored the contact. Took in the smell of Steve-–who was covered in ash and dirt, and who despite being a perfect human specimen now, unfortunately still produced _sweat_.

“You stink.”

Bucky felt the rumble of Steve’s chuckle in his chest.

“You too.”

“We should clean up and then talk,” Bucky proposed, untangling himself from the blond man’s hold. “I still have questions.”

Steve took a small step back. “Of course.”

 

They took their time in the river, enjoying each other’s company without having the need to speak. That’s how they reassured each other sometimes. If one of them had had a terrible day in the studio or at the factory, one look into the other’s eyes was all the communication they needed for the other to crack out a bottle of whiskey, or heat up some comfort food. Then they’d drink or eat in silence. It was just how things were.

After their bath Bucky followed Steve back to the Captain’s tent. Steve wasn’t a real Captain yet, though everyone suspected it wouldn’t be long before he received the title, but for now that’s what everyone called him. Captain America. Soon to be _Captain Steve Rogers_ of the 107th infantry.

The name had a nice ring to it. Bucky told Steve as much, and the other man just shrugged and flipped the compliment.

“I wouldn’t be nearly as good at what I do if you hadn’t trained me before the war. You’re a great fighter, Buck.”

Bucky chuckled, taking a swig from a flask that Dugan sneakily handed to him earlier in the day. He was feeling a bit tipsy. He’d offered some to Steve, but apparently being a super soldier meant he couldn’t get drunk anymore, and Bucky thought that _really_ dragged.

 _I wouldn’t want to be in your shoes,_ he said.

Steve just smiled, like he always did when Bucky said something off-handed. Which was most of the time, actually, seeing as how he always had some unsolicited thing to say. Steve had told him that was part of why he liked him so much.

_You speak your mind, Buck. Freedom of speech; it’s what’s so great about this country._

Bucky chuckled.

“What?”

“Nothing,” Bucky said. “Was just remembering stuff.”

It was comfortable with Steve. Like being home. In the back of his mind, Bucky was well aware that he’d almost lost all this. That his idiocy had compromised the relationship they had, and that if he hadn’t gotten it together long enough to not implode, Steve wouldn’t even be talking to him.

It was later in the night, when most of the camp had quieted down and the soldiers went back into their tents, that Steve and Bucky grew quieter with every swig they took, and hardly looked each other in the eye.

They’d skirted around the topics of interest the whole evening until now, and with the warm liquor settling in, Bucky especially had become more grim. It was now or never.

“Steve,” Bucky voiced out, taking another swig for courage. “Are you still seeing Stark?”

Silence fell around them. Crackled between their bodies, like it could singe them if they breathed too hard.

Bucky knew Steve was smart. He’d understand what he was asking without having to say it out loud.

The blond man cleared his throat, lips pursing in the way Bucky knew meant he was contemplating his next words. “If you’re asking if I’m seeing Stark, _specifically_ , the answer is I’m not.”

Bucky let out a ragged sigh of relief despite himself, and took another swig.

“But if you’re asking about the other thing, it’s still a yes.”

Suddenly Bucky found that swallowing back the rum wasn’t as easy as it had been when he started drinking.

He made a rough sound in the back of his throat. “S-so, lemme get this straight.”

The pun wasn’t lost on either of them.

“You’re not seeing anyone _currently,_ but you wouldn’t mind...seeing someone... under those circumstances.”

The question was meant to be rhetorical, but Steve answered anyway.

“Yes.”

“Okay,” Bucky said, nodding once, slowly. “Okay, that’s fine.”

Steve’s brows knitted together. “I’m not sure what this is about, Buck. Are you asking just to know, or is there something else?”

“No, no,” Bucky said, swaying gently towards Steve.

Steve steadied him by the shoulder, blue eyes scrutinizing him with concern. “You’re drunk.”

Bucky swatted his hand away. “‘m fine, Stevie. Just a little tipsy.”

“Maybe you should put the flask away now.”

And before Bucky could even protest, the flask was snatched from his hand, topped, and thrown across the tent.

“Hey! That was mine.”

Steve gave him a patronizing look. The kind of unwarranted look Bucky remembered getting from his father every time he came back from a tour and Bucky didn’t have enough hair on his face, hadn’t grown tall enough or developed enough muscles in his absence. It was hard to appease a man who’d never wanted to raise a boy, but had always wanted to father a man.

He frowned.

“You look like _him_ ,” he said.

Steve regarded him with interest for a second, before coming to the realization on his own. Immediately his face smoothed back into its usual Steve-like facade.

“Time for bed, buddy,” was all he said, as he stood to try to drag the drunk man to his feet.

Bucky whined, pulling away.

Steve’s body jerked slightly, but he was strong enough now to resist the downward pull. “You’ll thank me tomorrow, Buck. Come on.”

“Steeeeeeve,” Bucky protested. Then with a hiccup, asked, “Steve how’d you get s-so big? You’re like a beast!”

“You can ask me that again after you’ve gotten some sleep.”

“But I don’t want to sleep. It’s cold. I get cold when you’re not here. I miss you S-steve.”

Steve loosened the grip on his arm, but kept the warm pads of his fingers on Bucky’s goose flesh. “I’m here.”

The touch made Bucky’s arms prickle funny. He giggled.

“Okay, now _I’m_ the one concerned,” Steve muttered, crouching down to level with Bucky’s eyes. “We can do this the easy way or the hard way, Buck.”

Bucky burst out in laughter.“What’s the––the _hard_ way, Stevie?”

Steve flushed from the neck up.

Then with a low, teasing purr, Bucky added, “If you just wanted to take me to bed, you could’a said so.”

Had Bucky been lucid, he wouldn’t have missed the way Steve’s jaw clenched. He was in no shape or form capable of filtering his own ludicrous babbling, much less able to process anyone’s reactions to it.

“Ya know, Stevie. I thought about it,” Bucky said, voice serious, and eyes fluttering closed only to open again––bloodshot. “What it mus’ be ‘ike to...to do it with another guy. I can’t wrap my head around it.” He laughed again. “Or wrap _it_ around my...ha! Get it, Stevie? Cuz you…”

“I get it,” Steve snapped.

Bucky’s mouth formed a small ‘o’. His eyes were cloudy, but the way they stayed fixed on Steve’s face would give anyone the impression he was studying the taller man.

“Sorry, Stevie.”

“Forget it, just please let me bring you to the cot, ‘kay?”

Bucky nodded weakly. “Yeah, ‘kay.”

Steve supported Bucky’s weight with an arm around his torso, and carried him the ten or so steps to his own cot. Bucky thought he’d be taking him back to the tent he shared with Falsworth and Jones, but once his legs wobbled, he and Steve must have arrived at the same conclusion together. There was no way he was going to make it that far without passing out, or at the very least doubling over.

“‘member when I used to carry ya like this after a fight?” Bucky slurred.

“I remember. Watch your step.”

“You were so small I could carry you under one arm.”

Steve grunted in affirmation.

As soon as the cot was within arm’s length, Bucky reached for it and carelessly deposited his weight there. Steve had to hold him so he wouldn’t miss and hit the floor with how disoriented he was.

“I’m going to grab the wool blankets, and bring over a spare cot. Don’t move, alright?”

Bucky nodded groggily, already settling into the firm surface and closing his eyes.

Steve slipped out of the tent, soundlessly, while Bucky rolled on his side and held himself to conserve body heat. It was a cold night––so cold Bucky felt himself sobering infinitesimally.

His teeth were starting to chatter when Steve swooped in back to his side, setting down the spare cot and gently placing one of the blankets over Bucky’s shivering form.

It helped a little, but it wasn’t enough.

“Steve,” he called, voice shaky and broken.

Steve turned to face him with a raised brow.

It didn’t take long for a big, warm hand to descend on his forehead.

“You sweated,” Steve told him, voice laced with concern. “The alcohol must have warmed you up, and now the sweat is lowering your body temperature.”

“It’s c–cold.”

“Yeah, I know.”

Bucky cracked an eye open in time to see Steve move to the other side of his own cot and push the two together.

“We’re going to have to keep you warm, Buck,” he said, laying down on his side to face Bucky, and pulling his wool blanket over the both of them so Bucky was covered in two layers. “Come ‘ere.”

Bucky wriggled closer, fitting into the welcoming embrace of Steve’s chest and arm.

They lay together like that––Steve wrapped around Bucky, and Bucky covered in layers of wool and skin.

“You’ll feel better in the morning. Try to sleep.”

Bucky only nodded, the hair on his head tickling Steve’s chin.

Whether it was his imagination or not, just before he lost consciousness, Bucky swore he felt the gentle press of something against the crown of his head.

 

He woke early to the morning sounds of the camp––men rising with the sun, going for short jogs together, chatting, preparing their equipment, and packing up to leave.

It was confirmed the night prior; the men of the 107th and co. would be heading further south to take down what would be, presumably, the last enemy base in Italy. The sooner they got their bearings, the less chance there would be for reinforcements to come to the German’s aid. Italy was already out and accounted for, but one never knew what countries had secretly allied with Germany. There was always a risk they’d be ambushed or simply outnumbered if they waited too long to make a move.

As far as Bucky knew, Steve had gained Colonel Phillip’s approval after recklessly disobeying orders and running off to rescue their infantry, and had been put in charge of the next raid as a result. Something about how he managed to gain some intel when he’d gone snooping around the enemy compound.

The ease with which Steve had managed to fit right into army life didn’t surprise Bucky in the least. Heck, he’d woken up half an hour before anyone else and finished his run before Bucky even felt his absence. The two had stayed relatively warm all night thanks to Steve’s naturally higher body temperature, so it should have come as a surprise when suddenly the man and his heat were nowhere to be found, but it didn’t.

He supposed he could expect nothing less from professional soldier, Steve Rogers. Forget about Captain America. This was _all_ Steve.

He would have said as much if he wasn’t so consumed by thoughts of the night before.

“You gonna head down to breakfast?”

“Huh? What?” 

“Breakfast,” Steve repeated. “You alright?”

“Oh, um, yeah,” Bucky said, lacing up his boots.

“You’ve been pretty quiet all morning,” the blond man noted. “Hangover?”

Bucky hesitated for a second, conjuring up something not as alarming to say as what he was really thinking, but settled with a simple nod. “Yeah. Hangover.”

He went back to putting on his other boot, but he could feel Steve’s burning gaze on his profile.

“I know it’s rich coming from me, but I can tell there’s something you’re not telling me.”

Bucky shrugged. “‘s not important.”

“I thought we were gonna try to be honest with each other,” Steve reprimanded him.

Bucky pouted. “I am. And I said it’s not important.”

Steve crossed his arms, dubious.

“I’m serious, Steve. I’m okay. I was just thinking crazy thoughts.”

“Yeah? Like what?”

 _My God._ Steve was relentless.

Bucky sighed. “I was thinking of pranking Dugan at breakfast. He––”

“Bucky.” Steve glowered.

His jaw was locked in place, but his eyes remained calm, and patient.

Bucky’s gaze smoothed over Steve’s sharp nose, up to the crease between his brows, the furrowed skin of his forehead, and then down to his chin. He looked everywhere but the place where his thoughts had been fluttering to all morning.

Something had happened––that stirred the air between them, and Bucky wasn’t all convinced it was an unpleasant occurrence. He just couldn’t fathom _how_ it had happened, or why he’d _let_ it happen.

Surely Steve hadn’t meant anything by it. Had he?

Uncertainty. Fear. Those were the emotions running through his mind––agitating the acids in his gut. It was precisely that anxiety that prompted his ensuing outburst.

“Why did you kiss me last night?”

With the words hanging in the air, Bucky felt himself relax, even if he could feel a heat spreading from his cheeks to his ears, and down his neck.

“W-what?” Steve spluttered. “What kiss?”

“On my head, right before I fell asleep.”

Steve’s shoulders immediately relaxed. “Oh, that?”

“What do you mean, _Oh, that_?” Bucky protested, standing. “You’ve never done anything like that before. We haven’t ever––”

“Look,” Steve interrupted him, nonchalant. “It was just a kiss on the head, it’s not like I laid a real one on you. I don’t see what the big deal is.”

“ _What is the big deal_? You kissed me! We’re guys.”

“You’re my friend. It doesn’t mean what you think.”

“Well, how am I supposed to know that? First you hide that you’re...you know, and when I find out, you go around doing things like this. It doesn't paint a particularly innocent picture.”

Steve straightened his back, crossing his arms on his large, broad chest. With his chest puffed out, eyes steely, and jaw tight, he looked ridiculously cool, Bucky thought, in spite of the situation.

“You’re worried I have romantic feelings for you,” he stated matter-a-factly, looking like it was the most offensive thing he’s ever heard. “If that’s how you think I go around seducing other men, you have a big shock coming.”

That was his angry indoor voice. The one he used when the situation didn’t call for yelling, or the blond man simply didn’t feel like venting out. His body language said all without the need for that.

“A kiss on the head, Buck? You’ve been on enough bad dates to know that’s only good for turning down overzealous gals who should never have snuck out of their daddy’s house in the first place. I’ve seen children kiss their pet dogs with more fire than that.”

“But––”

“What? You thought I’ve been harboring feelings for you? That I rescued you from the enemy just so I could cash in some noble best friend with benefits reward, and have my way with you? As recompense?”

“I wouldn’t go that far––”

“Let me get one thing straight,” Steve said, walking the five feet over to Bucky, and inching towards him until his whispery breath tickled the brunette’s nose. “If I’d wanted to kiss you for real, I can assure you it wouldn’t have looked anything like that.”

Bucky swallowed, eyes drifting lower on Steve’s face.

There was something intimidating about this larger Steve. He still had the same angelic face as always, but the new physique just wasn’t something Bucky could come to terms with. So he had no choice but to focus on the features that _were_ familiar: his blue eyes, his sharp nose, and full lower lip. Yet even those, from this intimate distance, seemed different. More defined. Amplified. The same but not the same. It was like looking at Steve for the first time, and dammit...he was...beautiful?

Steve was being brazen now, eyes shaking with a new wildness Bucky had never seen, and even his jaw tilted ever so slightly upwards, with the confidence of a real Captain. It wasn’t a strange move from him; Steve had been cocky even before, but now there was less arrogance in his air, and more _promise._ The promise of ‘I won’t hold back if this evolves into something physical, regardless of you being my friend.’

“No, Buck. If you were one of the guys I wanted to get in bed with, I’d have had you on your back, writhing, about six hours ago. I would have shown you, firsthand, what it’s like to want to be with me. To give in to the touch of another man. To want to do all those things you’ve only ever imagined doing with some dame, late at night, after a few dozen rounds at the dance hall.”

Bucky swallowed back thickly, pupils shaking. _What the hell?_

“You’re not giving me enough credit, Buck. You may be a professional heartbreaker, but I’m no stranger to seduction either,” he said, a small smirk tugging the corners of his lips. “You forget that I’ve had my way around guys since before the war.”

It was true, Bucky remembered, much to his dislike. Steve wasn’t a virgin. He’d always assumed he lost it to one of the few girls Bucky had successfully hooked him up with, but he had an inkling now that wasn’t how things had panned out.

Honestly, Bucky was having a hard time shaking the image of Steve doing all the intimate things he knew about with other men––like Stark. _Steve._ The all-American boy scout.

A nervous chuckle passed through his lips. “So what, Stevie? Ya saying I’m not your type?”

Steve’s smirk bloomed into a smile. “What do you think?”

Bucky swallowed again. “I think you’re being excessively flirtatious right now. Ya know, for someone who says they’re not interested.”

“You’re not running away.”

He choked out a laugh. Incredulous. “Maybe you really haven’t noticed, but I’ve been pressed between this pole and your punk ass for about three minutes now. I’ve got nowhere to go.”

Steve blinked slowly, stepping back infinitesimally––as if sobering up–– to give Bucky and their closeness a once over.

Bucky was at a loss for words. Everything that had just transcended between them was blowing his mind. And Steve’s sudden bashfulness after having said all that with so much confidence and so little shame, perplexed him even further.

It looked like he was about to say something ––apologize or give excuses, perhaps–– but a woman in a green service coat and skirt barged into the tent, interrupting Bucky’s scrutiny and making Steve jump back. Whatever words had been on the tip of Steve’s tongue fizzled in the air.

“Peggy.”

“Steve.”

Bucky looked between the two, calculative. The woman gave Steve a questioning look, but Steve looked pretty well put together. Like whatever had happened moments ago wasn’t out of the ordinary, and the two of them hadn’t almost been caught in a very compromising position.

“Bucky.”

Steve and the woman, who was apparently called Peggy, turned to Bucky, confused.

“Pardon?”

“My name is Bucky,” he clarified. “Got a little tense there for a moment, thought I should break the ice.”

“Yes, I know,” Peggy confirmed. “Sergeant James Barnes, of the 107th. Steve’s friend.”

“ _Best_ ,” Steve chimed in.

Bucky rolled his eyes. _People need to stop doing that._

Peggy looked Bucky over once. Her brown eyes lazily skimming over his edges, and lips pursed in a way Bucky couldn’t fathom. The closest he’d ever gotten to understanding that look was through studying a young, teenage Becca, but his sister was an enigma all of her own, and he couldn’t really consider her to be any sort of representative to womankind.

“Colonel Phillips asked me to come look for you, Steve. He’s thinking of putting together a team. I’m afraid that’s all I’m allowed to say.” She gave Bucky a pointed look.

Steve nodded casually, hands going to frame the buckle of his belt. “I’ll be there in a moment, but Peggy––”

“Yes?”

“If I may, I’d like to ask that, if in the future you have any unclassified information for me, you don’t mind James and just say it. Anything that concerns me is likely to concern _him_.”

Bucky stilled––frozen–– and not just from what Steve said.

And _James? What the hell, Steve._

The woman––Peggy––had a crossed look on her face, and goddammit was she terrifying. Beautiful. But terrifying.

“I will try my best to remember that, Rogers.”

The change of formality in her tone didn’t go unnoticed and Bucky witnessed as this new, _I-can-sometimes-be-brazen,_ Steve flinched sheepishly into his collar. Bucky chuckled under his breath.

“I’ll see you in a bit,” Peggy said, looking between them briefly before making her exit.

“She sure is something,” Bucky said, once she was out of earshot.

“That’s Peggy,” Steve said with a sigh in his voice. “First time I met her she socked a soldier across the face.”

“I’m sure he deserved it.”

“Sure did,” said Steve, straightening out his personal effects. “Here,” he added, grabbing a couple of neatly folded missives out of a small sack, “I penned these before I underwent transformation. Feel free to read them, or toss them if you like.”

Bucky accepted the proffered letters and looked down at the brown twine that held them together, which Steve had artfully tied into a neat bow at the top.

“When I get back from seeing the Colonel, I’ll find you and we can find something to eat. Unless you’re hungry––”

“No. No, I’m good. I’ll just go do...whatever meanwhile. We still have things to discuss.”

Steve regarded him carefully. “Ok.”

Before he slipped away, Bucky reached for Steve’s forearm, holding him back. “Steve, I’m––”

Bucky became distracted by the big, innocent, blue eyes turning back at him. Steve’s baby blues. Images of having had to look into those beautiful eyes after a fight––framed with dark bruises, or decorated with popped blood vessels–– flared up Bucky’s protective instincts. He squeezed Steve’s arm gently.

“I’m really glad you’re alive.”

Steve gave him a small smile. “Me too.”

And it was that look––that sincere gaze, and reassuring smile–– that made Bucky feel like for once they would all get out of this war, alive. Steve was here, and wherever Steve was, _hope_ was sure to be close behind.

Just as Steve was almost out the door, he paused, and then very slowly turned back to him.

“And Bucky?”

“Yeah?”

Steve hesitated. “About before––I just wanted to say––I hope you don’t think badly of me. I want you to know that I would never intentionally do anything to make you uncomfortable. Or make you think you couldn’t trust me. I have so much respect for you, Buck. The last thing I want is for you to think you’re just another conquest. What we have––this friendship––it’s ‘til the end of the line.”

Bucky's breath caught in his throat. He couldn’t bring himself to ruin the moment by saying something back. So he only watched with a guarded smile as Steve turned his back, and disappeared through the tent flaps.

 

Bucky sat down on the cot with the letters in his hand but made no move to open them. What difference would it make anyway? He had Steve back, and anything that had happened in their time apart was best left to rot in the past. There was no need to conjure up bad memories, not now when Bucky had been given a slew of second chances. The chance to live. The chance to serve. The chance to reconcile with Steve. _Be_ with Steve.

Something deep inside him still ached––still felt hollow–– but for the moment he didn’t believe there was much else he could ask for.

He was resolved to protect this moment. Keep it close to his heart.

_I’m gonna put my trust in you, pal. From here on out, it’ll just be you and me. A team. ‘Til the end of the line._

Yet instead of tossing the letters like Steve had suggested, Bucky ended up stuffing them into his pocket. 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So how 'bout that "kiss"? HAHAHAHA


	5. Frayed Edges

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Howling Commandos are tasked with retrieving Arnim Zola, and shit ensues.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I delivered on my promise for a faster update! The next chapter will up within the next 2-3 weeks or so. Follow my twitter @PeggysWife for updates (if you want). I'll try to keep those pinned, starting now.

 

 

**-Three Months Later-**

 

 

“You’ve always been a stupid punk, Steve,” Bucky said, glaring at the now-officially-ranked _Captain_.

“So I’ve heard,” responded the taller man, pocketing his compass and dusting his hands on his trousers.

“Yeah, but this plan of yours really takes the cake. Zip-lining onto a train? In these mountains?”

“It’s the only plan that makes sense,” Dugan said, earning himself a scowl from the reluctant brunet.

“Yeah, if the plan is to get us killed.”

“We don’t have any other options,” Steve said, shrugging him off. “Jim intercepted the radio feed and confirmed that Arnim Zola will be on that train. It’s still making its way through Germany and will be entering Austria within the next fourteen hours. Dernier and Falsworth already set up the wires at our point of interception; it’s the easiest descent on the range, there shouldn’t be any complications.”

“Sounds simple enough,” Dugan said.

“That’s the easy part. Zola will be inside, most likely protected by armed guards, so getting through them might not be a walk in the park. Hydra is still in possession of the alien power source used to fuel the weapons we encountered in Vienna. It’s very likely they’ll use it on us again. Howard still doesn’t fully understand what it can do.”

Bucky scoffed at the mention of Stark’s name.

Steve gave him a look.

“So what’s the plan of attack?”

“I’ll descend first. We’ll only have a few seconds to get the timing right, and I want to be sure we do, so on my cue Bucky goes next, and then Dugan. We’ll have just enough time for the three of us to get on board. The rest of you will stay put and keep us posted through comms if anything happens.”

“Isn’t that too risky a move?”

“You might need backup.”

Steve pursed his lips. “I considered that.”

“But?”

“But if something happens to us on that train, and I’m not able to keep us safe, It’ll ease my mind to know the rest of you are okay.”

Falsworth shook his head, disapproving. “When we accepted to be part of the Howling Commandos we understood the risk involved, Cap. If there’s anything we can do, we’ll do it.”

Dugan, Jones, and Morita nodded their assent.

The fire in Steve’s eyes dimmed. The Captain’s shoulders drooped slightly, a concerned tilt in his brows. “I know. I couldn’t have asked for a more capable and loyal team, but if all of us go down we won’t all make it on that train. The plan still goes.”

Morita looked about ready to argue back, but held off from it, unwittingly resigned.

“Yes, sir,” Falsworth said, equally consternated.

In a way, Bucky was glad he wasn’t alone in his concern. Over the last few months Steve had proven himself a good leader, a great strategist, but sometimes he needed a bit of prodding because he took his role so seriously it clouded his judgement. He needed to be reminded he wasn’t alone in this––whatever this all was. If it was just Bucky telling him to ease off, Steve would just shrug him off and say he was worrying. Hearing it from the rest of the team, on the other hand, helped. No good leader could discount the opinions of his team if they were in the majority. Steve knew this.

“So what do we do in the meantime?”

“I’ve sent Dernier to an earlier point in the tracks so he can inform us when the train is near. Jones, I need you to meet up with him. His English still isn’t very good and he might need a translator if something goes awry.”

Jones nodded, firm.

“Morita and Falsworth, you’ll stay with us for now. When the plan sets in motion, you’ll be staying up top to watch for any unusual activity. We’ll all be keeping in touch through comms, just in case.”

“There is still plenty of time before then,” Bucky chimed in, eyes challenging. He was surprised nobody had bothered to bring that up. “We’ll be cold up in the mountains. It’s winter.”

“That’s why we’re not going up yet,” Steve said, matter-a-factly.

“But Dernier is already at his post?”

“He’s very well taken care of, I can assure you.”

Falsworth threw Bucky a communicative glance.

He swallowed, knowing exactly what that look meant. “Steve?”

Steve twirled in his direction; a clumsy motion so unlike him.  
“Are you alright? You don’t seem to be thinking…” Bucky said, letting the words hang.

“What? Rationally?” Steve bit out, tired.

“No,” Bucky responded through his teeth. “I mean, you don’t seem to be thinking at _all_.”

“That’s an exaggeration,” Falsworth amended, quickly, in effort to dampen the rising tension. “He means to say, you don’t sound very clear-headed, like usual.”

“Steve, it’s alright if you’re nervous. We all are,” Bucky told him, placing a hand on his arm. And boy, wasn’t that the truth. Bucky could feel the tension crawling up his back. His muscles ached from the hours spent trying to shrink into the smallest crevice on the dirt ground. Hours spent trying to avoid the inevitability that was the mission. It was too much for him too soon.

It’s true he’d told Steve that he’d follow him anywhere, even if that meant going after him into the jaws of death, but that was months ago. Back when the rush of finding Steve was still new, and he’d been hopeful things would start to look up now that they had each other back. And had each other’s backs.

Then Bucky started having episodic bouts of after-battle sicknesses––horrible anxiety attacks that came unexpectedly and lasted hours––ever since the serum had been administered to him. He hadn’t told anyone about that, not even Steve, though he came close to letting the cat out of the bag on the night the other man entered Bucky’s tent with a rolled up map tucked under one arm, only to find him rocking on the cot with his fists clenched at his sides. Steve had sat down beside him, talking him through the exercises they’d been taught at basic training camp.

_Deep breaths, come on Buck. You can do it. You’re safe. It’s over. I’m here._

He didn’t ask for details. Didn’t patronize him, or try to pity him. Steve knew what war did to soldiers. He’d seen it first hand, how the explosions of detonating grenades and smell of gunpowder penetrated deeper than flesh, deeper than bone and tissue. They attacked the blood and pumped through the brain, and made it so that you could only feel the mangled bodies of despair and sanity clawing at each other deep inside the cavities, ceaselessly, and without a clear victor.

Up until now, only Bucky had shown a trauma like this. Now he had to wonder if Steve also had some demons in his closet. Worries. Fears. Regrets. Anxiety that he bottled up and kept to himself.

Bucky chuckled under his breath. _Of course he does, idiot._ Nobody takes on the huge burden of Captain without being bogged down by that earth-shaped weight on their shoulders after a while. Steve wasn’t like other humans now, but that didn’t mean he was _super_ human either. The serum hadn’t removed his ability to feel. Hadn’t liberated him of a conscience. Humans cracked under pressure. It was how they were built.

Steve rubbed the corner of his eyes with a thumb and forefinger. He sighed. “Yeah, okay. Maybe I could use a little rest beforehand.”

Falsworth nodded, passing silent instructions with his gaze to Bucky to take Steve somewhere quiet. They had a couple of smaller tents pitched outside the main tent, and though they’d had to split them evenly due to the limited space of their hideout––a medium sized cavern on the facade of a lower mountain–– they would be unoccupied for the next few hours.

“You didn’t have to accompany me, Buck,” Steve said, turning around once they were inside. “I’m not five-four and asthmatic anymore. I can sleep without you watching over me.”

Bucky shrugged, lighting up the small lamp hanging by the entrance.

“Sure you can, but I need to be sure you’ll actually sleep and not just lay there concocting more plans until you’ve had enough of sitting around. I _know_ you.”

Steve pursed his lips.

“Don’t you dare get stubborn with me. Sleep,” he said, pointing to the two wool blankets and small pillow on the floor.

Steve’s mouth relaxed with a sigh. “There’s no winning with you.”

“Yeah, it’s about time you got used to it,” Bucky said, with a quirk of his lips.

Steve scoffed, feigning derision, as his fingers moved to undo the buttons on the collar of his issued jacket, one by one. The gray flannel shirt he wore beneath clung a little too closely to his body, emphasizing the enlarged muscles on his chest.

Bucky didn’t mean to stare, but he was still so fascinated by Steve’s new body––he couldn’t believe it was real. That someone could go from being all skin and bones to suddenly having muscles where they didn’t before.

“How did you get used to it?” He found himself saying out loud.

Steve, who was already on his knees over the blankets, stopped what he was doing and peered up at him, eyebrows up. “What?”

“Being in that body,” Bucky clarified, ears red. “I mean, one minute you were small, and then––” He did a small wave with one hand.

Steve chuckled. “I dunno. I guess even when I was small I felt big.”

There was no helping the laugh that thundered out of Bucky’s frame. “Ya sure as heck didn’t act small.”

“Yeah, well, you know me. Stubborn Steve,” he said, with a condescending smile.

Bucky’s laughter stopped short. “No, no. Steve, that wasn’t your stubbornness.”

Steve shot him a ‘don’t talk shit’ look.

“Okay, maybe it was _partially_. But every time you went after those bullies and got yourself into fights you couldn’t win, you had a motive, didn’t you?”

Steve puzzled over the question, like it had the most obvious answer in the world. “Someone needed help.”

“Exactly,” Bucky said, sitting down on the floor with him. “That was _braveness,_ Steve _._ Not just stubbornness or stupidity. You were always doing what nobody else would. The right thing. That’s what made you big.”

Steve regarded him for a moment, eyes soft and admiring.

Suddenly, Bucky was aware of where he was, how close they were, and couldn’t remember how’d he’d even come to be on the makeshift bed with Steve.

“You always know what to say to me,” Steve said, low and contemplative. “Especially when I’m bracing myself to hear the worst. It’s like you can read me like a book. That’s why you’re always proving me wrong. Must be that competitive streak in you.”

Bucky hadn’t ever thought about it that way, but hearing it from Steve’s mouth was almost offensive. “I’m not your enemy, Steve. I’m your best friend.”

“Yeah, I know,” he said, placing a hand on Bucky’s shoulder. “I just wish more guys were like you. Haven’t exactly got the best track record for meeting swell fellas.”

Bucky was taken aback by the admission. “You mean…”

“Yeah,” Steve said, moving his hand away and falling on his back. “I seem to be attracted to the asshole variety.”

“Even Stark?” Bucky asked, the shock in his own tone surprising even himself.

Steve frowned. “Maybe especially Stark, but he’s a special kind of asshole. Doesn’t mean half the things he says, and means half the stuff he shouldn’t.”

“Well, God’s giving you a sign,” Bucky said, twiddling his fingers nervously.

“What? That I should give up on men and go back to pretending the ladies get me off?” He shook his head. “That wouldn’t be fair to them.”

_So like you to think of everyone else’s feelings first._

“I was gonna say,” Bucky continued, peeling his eyes away from his hands to look right into Steve’s. “Maybe you should just stick with me then.”

Steve’s lips parted infinitesimally, then he said, “You don’t mean that.”

Bucky shrugged, perusing the words in his head carefully. “We’ve been together forever. I know my hostility wasn’t what you needed when you came out, but I’ve learned my lesson. I know I can give you the friendship you deserve. I––”

He choked.

“Buck?” Steve said, sitting abruptly, and regarding Bucky’s hunched over form.

“I can’t imagine a life without you in it. I don’t _want_ to be apart from you. I almost lost you twice. I––”

“Buck…”

“I’m sorry. I know I have no right.”

“Hey, look at me,” Steve said softly, cradling the side of Bucky’s face with one hand and swiping a thumb under his eye. “You know that I love you. Why else would I have looked so hard to find you.”

Something inside of Bucky broke upon hearing those few, simple words–– so gentle, but as big and strong as Steve himself. Bucky felt enveloped by them, felt them seeping into his skin, overflowing his veins, until at last they came spilling back out like honey.

“I love you, too,” he spluttered, unable to hold the tears back.

Why was it always him who broke down in front of Steve, Bucky found himself thinking, distantly. Why couldn’t he ever get Steve to let down his guard; drop the shield? Just once.

Steve let him finish, rubbing the back of his neck to comfort him.

It didn’t take long, Bucky wasn’t a messy crier, and could always get a hold of himself before things got too uncomfortable for him or everyone else. When he was sure his voice wouldn’t crack, he mumbled a _thanks_.

Steve squeezed his shoulder, laying back down and patting the spot beside him for Bucky to join him.

Bucky did.

“You were supposed to make sure I got rest, but I think you need it as much as I do,” Steve said, a hint of a smile in his voice.

Bucky could always count on Steve to bring the mood back up.

“Yeah, yeah.”

Steve turned on his side, facing him. Silence crackling in the air between them.

Bucky stared at the tent ceiling, listening closely to his erratic heartbeat as it eased back into a comfortable pace.

“I’m sorry,” Steve said to Bucky’s profile.

“What for?”

“For stringing you along. I know this hasn’t been easy for you. Thank you.”

“It’s worth it," Bucky said, turning to face him too, “b’sides, we promised we’d be here for each other ‘til the end of the line’, right?”

Steve smiled warmly, eyes drifting to the bottom of Bucky’s face. “Yeah.”

 

They were woken nearly seven hours later by a frantic Dugan, who stormed into their tent shouting that the train had been spotted by Dernier and Jones at their post.

“Get your asses up, the Swiss Rat is on his way!”

Bucky’s eyes fluttered open just as Steve sat up to reach for his discarded uniform.

“What’s the estimated arrival time?” Steve asked, voice gruff.

“At the train’s current speed, Jones estimated thirty-three minutes.”

“How will we know for sure?” Bucky asked, groggily. “That seems too wide a frame to only bank on guesswork.”

“Morita took the bike along the mountain path. The second he spots the train, he’ll chase it back to our post and let us know through comms when we should go.”

“Could have mentioned that earlier, Steve,” Bucky reprimanded, as he put on his leather mountain boots. “You had me worried for nothing.”

Steve threw him a short, apologetic smile, before turning around to rifle through one of his bags.

“I’m gonna talk strategy with _Jameson_. See ya ladies when you’re ready to join us,” Dugan said before heading out.

“Jameson?” Steve asked, once the bearded man was gone.

Bucky rolled his eyes. “Just one of Dum-Dum’s many new Commando jokes, Cap. Don’t worry your pretty little head over it.”

Steve’s mouth open and closed like a fish out of water, before finally nodding and handing Bucky back his spare pistol. “This was in my bag, you must’ve misplaced it,” he said.

Bucky regarded the Colt 1911 with wonder, contemplating briefly how he could have put it amongst Steve’s things. “That’s where it went,” he mused.

“We should hurry,” Steve said, checking over his gear one more time. The look was almost complete, save for the trademark shield, which Steve had left back in the main tent with the rest of their armory and ammunition.

“Let’s.” Bucky confirmed.

 

“Jim spotted the train, he’s following it back here now,” Falsworth said, walking alongside the Captain when the two men finally appeared.

“We’ve no time to waste, then,” Steve said, heading for his shield. “Let’s take our posts.”

Dugan followed suit, carefully selecting one of the new shotguns that’d been signed off to their unit. He’d been dying to try one out.

Bucky took a Sturmgewehr 44 for himself, lamenting that he wouldn’t be able to use his beloved sniper rifle for this mission. He’d always been the best long-distance shot back home, and it wasn’t any different out in the field.

Falsworth was already armed and waiting in the vehicle at the cavern entrance, and Dugan joined him promptly.

“Hey, whatever happens,” Steve said, startling Bucky out of his concentrated inspection. “I’ll have your back.”

Bucky looked at Steve, eyes admiring the side of his soft but focused face.

“Yeah, me too,” he said, barely above a whisper.

“Any day now,” Dugan hollered, snapping the two friends back to attention.

They didn’t waste any more time.

Falsworth hit the gas and they were off––winding up the mountain path to the marked point 750 meters above ground level. The air was significantly chillier, if everyone but Steve shrinking into their coats was any indication.

“My hands are frozen,” Falsworth said, with vapory breath, as he rubbed his gloved hands together.

“I’ll do you one better,” Dugan retorted, a sneer on his face. “My ass is frozen.”

Bucky watched as Steve hopped off the truck and made his way to the snowy ledge. A thick wire was attached to the facade of the mountain they were on, extending over the chasm between the separate cliffs, to the mountain opposite from them. He measured his distance, and leapt to grip the line with both hands to test it.

Bucky’s heart leapt with him, stuttering as he saw Steve dangle then sway, purposefully, over thousands of feet of nothing. “Steve!”

With an unabashed quirk of his lips, Steve swung back to the ledge, softly hitting the rock with the bottoms of his feet, and letting go of the wire when he was able to stand upright.

“What the hell are you doing?”

Steve backed away from the ledge to Bucky’s side, readjusting the gloves on his hands. “Needed to be sure it was still safe.”

Bucky bit the inside of his cheek. He wanted to be angry, but that the wire needed to be tested was true. It only sucked that it made the most sense for Steve to do it.

“Here are your handles,” Falsworth said, passing one to each man.

Bucky took his, begrudgingly.

“Jim, what’s your status?” Dugan said into his receiver, by the truck.

The Commandos listened quietly as the faint hum of static answered back. There was a click.

“I’m on its tail. I’ll give you the go when it hits the last bend.” _Click._

“Roger that,” Falsworth said back, face leaning into the apparatus, before Dugan ended the comm with another _click_.

The winter air whistled past their bodies and through their jackets, sending Bucky stumbling backwards.

He crouched down on his heels to reduce his surface area, hand reaching out to steady himself on the snow, only for it to slip through his fingers as wet slush.

Steve crouched down in front of him, grabbing the lapels of Bucky’s jacket to lift them up and create a cover for his neck and chin.

“Thanks,” Bucky said, voice muffled.

Steve smiled, hands still on him.

Bucky’s cheeks flamed, eyes drifting down to Steve’s scuffed boots.

Steve normally took his uniform maintenance seriously, but it’d been two months since they got to rest and he got to do anything about it. There just hasn’t been time for amenities like shoe polishing; they haven’t even been able to sit down for a drink. The last time Bucky had tasted liquor was when he and Steve had had that very important yet disconcerting chat three months ago.

Bucky’s mind drifted to that night. To the flashes of Steve’s face so close to his, and the warmth the other man radiated when he pushed Bucky into a corner and made promises to do all those sinful things. Empty promises that Bucky acknowledged had been said in the spur of the moment.

Steve poked the space between Bucky’s eyes, startling him.

“You were frowning again,” Steve said, chuckling.

A slight tremble rocked Bucky’s body as he saw Steve’s eyes crinkle around the edges, and his hand coming to rest on his own chest. Trademark Steve Rogers laugh.

His hand shot out to take Steve’s free hand in his own, gripping the clothed flesh possessively.

Steve’s laughter halted, dying in the frigid air. He looked at Bucky curiously, then down at their intertwined fingers.

“Buck––”

“I can’t––” Bucky said, eyes wide and pupils shaking.

Steve gripped back, hard.

“I just got you back.”

“Buck, what are you saying?”

“ I––”

“Morita checked back in. The train is approaching!” Dugan informed, snatching Steve’s attention away.

Steve turned his head to Dugan, then back to Bucky for a brief moment, before slipping his hand from his and getting to his feet. “It’s go time.”

Bucky stayed crouched for a moment, gathering his breath and staring down at his trembling hand. He’d been so close. So close from backing away from the mission, and asking Steve to go with him.

It was the fear that nearly caused it. He’d _been_ afraid for the longest time that what would finally tear them apart wouldn’t be their egos, but the sempiternal force of death. He’s felt it calling for him since Austria. But today, seeing how Steve had carelessly put his life on the line––quite literally––for the nth time, it just did things to him. Turned his insides into mush.

He was afraid for _Steve._

He had to protect him.

From himself.

He stood, the zip line handle limp in his left hand, and his right hand clenched.

He followed Steve and Dugan to the wire, keeping extra close to the blond man––so close his chest almost touched the taller man’s back.

Steve turned his head with a confused expression on his face, before turning back towards the ledge.

Bucky’s free hand hovered over Steve’s side, there to catch him if his friend were to take a stumble and fall.

He was being paranoid––he knew it––but the blood whooshing in his ears deafened him to reason.

The train whistled in the distance, its wheels rumbling against the metal rails of the old tracks that wound around the mountain in front of them, and then disappeared through another range.

Steve readied himself at the wire, legs spread shoulder width apart, and arms reaching overhead to fix the handle correctly.

Bucky stayed close.

“On my signal,” said Steve.

Bucky heard the rustling of Dugan setting up behind him.

“Ready when you are, Cap.”

Bucky waited with bated breath, arms stretched overhead, and chest thrumming with the uneven palpitations of his heart.

The earth was calling to him again.

He closed his eyes, refusing to hear her cadences.

“On three.”

The train approached, its nose only a few hundred feet from the line.

Steve inched closer to the ledge.

“One.”

Bucky followed suit.

“Two.”

The train whistled again.

“Three.”

Steve jumped, and as if they were attached magnetically, Bucky’s feet were pulled right off the mountain. His body dipped with the line; weightless as it soared after his friend across the vast chasm.

His eyes stayed fixed on the back of Steve’s head as they zipped. Watching as his blond locks were pushed back with the wind.

A gust blew in his face and irritated his eyes. His lids narrowed instinctively, but didn’t close. He couldn't afford to lose sight of Steve and the train.

Behind him, Bucky knew Dugan was probably facing the same predicament.

Finally, they approached a middle cluster of train cars.

Steve landed first, then Bucky, and then Dugan; each letting go of their handles once their feet were safely above the black metal.

As soon as they were all aboard, the train made a turn with the rails around the mountain, and disappeared from Falsworth’s sight.

Steve motioned with a gloved hand for Bucky to follow him into a hatch on one of the cars. Dugan had already spotted one behind them, and gone down near the back to sweep the train from the tail, while Steve and Bucky looked for Zola at the other end.

Steve used his enhanced strength to turn the hatch and jump down without checking the inside first.

Bucky wasn’t too pleased with the carelessness in his movements, but went on down after him. Once inside, Bucky drew his Sturmgewehr from its fixed position at his back, sweeping the car for enemies until he was sure all was clear, and then gave Steve the okay.

Steve nodded, before clawing at a set of doors leading to the front of the train, and prying them open.

Then a blue beam shot past Steve’s head to the other end of the car they’d broken into.

“Cover!” Steve said, drawing his shield and taking a defensive position by the doors.

Bucky took the other side, fingers moving to the trigger of his weapon as blasts continued to zoom past them.

“I’m going in first. Follow suit when I give you the clear,” Steve instructed.

Bucky nodded briskly, not liking the plan in the least bit. But orders were orders, and the last thing he wanted was to jeopardize the mission. Or Steve’s life.

Once Steve was inside and had the enemy engaged, the car doors shut closed to Bucky’s alarm.

He straightened immediately, trying to get them open again, but they wouldn’t budge. He hit the glass window with his forearm. Once, and then again in frustration.

All he could do was watch through the panel as Steve drew an arm back and launched his shield. It ricocheted off the floor and bounced upwards to hit a robot-like soldier on the chin, causing it to fall backwards.

Steve kept firing his pistol to keep the hunk of metal from standing before he could reach it.

When it seemed like Steve had the enemy on the ropes, another pair of doors opened behind Bucky.

Cautiously, Bucky threw himself behind a pile of metal crates. He’d barely made it when a series of short beams hit the doors to Steve’s car––leaving black streaks of charred metal in their wake.

He waited until the blasts dissipated before firing back, making sure to periodically duck for cover to reload. He was clearly outgunned, and it was unlikely he’d be able to do damage to an approximately four hundred pound robot with tiny metal bullets.

He leaned back against the boxes, teeth clenched. _Dammit._

The sound of approaching footsteps had him firing again. After a few more rounds, the magazine in his Sturmgewehr was emptied.

Dread overtook him.

_Come on, Steve._

Like clockwork, Steve appeared at the small window of the doors separating them, and looked at Bucky with worried eyes. He motioned at Bucky’s gun, questioningly.

Bucky shook his head.

Steve tensed his jaw and quickly began to look around until his eyes lit up, as though remembering something.

He lifted his own pistol and pointed at it, and then at Bucky.

Bucky wanted to smack himself. _The Colt, of course._

He reached for the concealed holster on his right leg and drew his pistol, then removed the safety expertly, and shot back at the robot that had made its way to the middle of the car.

Just as he was getting back into a rhythm, the doors separating him and Steve opened with a metallic grinding noise, and Steve was back at his side, firing with him.

The robot stumbled backwards, trying to find its footing.

Bucky fired his last shot, and then stepped behind Steve.

“I’ve got it,” Steve assured him, with a strained lilt.

Then, just as things were looking up as Steve had managed to get the thing on its back––motionless––a second armored soldier appeared from the same doors the robot had come from, and shot at Steve with an even more intense beam.

Steve was viciously propelled across the car, his shield flying out of his hands.

“Steve!” Bucky shouted, stricken with pain and worry for his friend.

When Steve didn’t stir, Bucky lunged for the fallen shield and held it up protectively.

The soldier turned to him instantly and took aim, hitting the shield and Bucky with an uncontrolled blast that opened a hole on the side of the train.

Bucky was immediately sucked towards it, and the shield torn out of his grasp.

“Bucky!” he heard Steve call, as Bucky struggled to latch onto something solid. His fingers grazed a metal pipe lining the outermost part of the train before closing around it, firm.

Bucky let out a jagged breath of relief.

The cold wind pushed against him, seeming to want to rip him off the train like a used bandage, but his grip tightened on the black rod with fervor matching that of his will to live. His feet dangled off the rails, hovering over the empty space below him. He didn’t dare look down, but he knew they were up about a thousand meters, with the Danube River just below.

His teeth clattered, a sob working its way up his throat. He pushed it back down.

“Steve,” he mumbled, broken.

Bucky heard more fighting from within the car, more blasts, and the ricochets of Steve’s shield. His heart halted when, after a particularly brutal sound, all went quiet.

Bucky closed his eyes tight. _Steve._

A labored breath. But not his.

“Bucky,” Steve said, the last syllable of his name evanescing into the young blizzard beginning to whip around them.

Bucky’s eyes opened to see a rough-housed Steve extend a muscled arm towards him.

“Take my hand,” said the blond man, wild. His lip was bleeding, and there was a large tear on the shoulder of his uniform.

Bucky tested his grip on the bars, tentative, before sliding in Steve’s direction.

Steve leaned in further, causing the metal under his feet to groan dangerously.

Bucky stilled, unable to go farther for fear that they’d both plunge into the river below. _Steve._

“Buck, reach for my hand.”

“I can’t.”

Steve leaned forward again, his toes hanging over the edge.

Bucky’s eyes went wide. “Steve, don’t,” he warned, but he didn’t listen.

A panic rose in Bucky’s chest.

“I’m not going in without you,” Steve shouted. “I’m not leaving you out here to die!”

Bucky held his breath as Steve’s fingers inched infinitesimally closer, the flesh of his bare pads the only things he could see with clarity as Steve’s face became shrouded by white snowy whorls.

“Take it,” Steve repeated, insistent.

Bucky threw caution to the wind, shifting his weight towards Steve again, only to freeze when the bar loosened and his weight sank.

“Bucky, _take_ it,” Steve pleaded.

The landing beneath Steve’s feet dipped too.

Then the train jolted as the wheels snagged on an uneven rail, and Steve swayed, quickly finding purchase on the cold exterior of the car.

Bucky stared at the volatile predicament before him. Steve was too close to the edge for comfort, and Bucky could see it in his eyes––the unyielding determination to get them both back up. Steve wasn’t going to relent. Steve never did.

Sure enough, Steve got back up like he hadn’t almost fallen to his death to get to him, and extended his arm again.

Over the heart palpitation-inducing shrieks of iron, Bucky heard the earth crying out his name. Seeking him out. Only him.

She didn't want Steve yet.

And even if she did, Bucky wasn’t going to let her have him. Never Steve.

“I’m sorry,” he said, with a pained bleat.

Steve regarded him with crystalline eyes. A river frozen over.

If only he could reach inside and seek refuge in the warmth beneath their surface. But an icy death was what awaited him.

If this was to be the conclusion of his paltry existence, he found solace in it.

Going out protecting Steve.

_There are worse ways to die._

The surreptitious words bubbled like hot caramel in the back of his mouth, and for a moment, there was nothing holding him back from trying them. But he clamped his lips shut.

  


And let himself fall.

  


It wasn’t the thousand foot plummet that shattered every bone in his body and tore every fiber of his being apart. It was Steve’s long, animalistic, and echoing cry as Bucky was swallowed by winter, that did it.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The ending of this was really difficult to write.


	6. Synthetic Fibers

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> At this point Bucky has been under Hydra's control for many decades, but this is his first time going on a mission that connects his new life with his old. Even if he doesn't know it.

**-December 1991-**

 

The taste of iron and steel alloy, sweat, and blood danced on his tongue as the Soldier prepared himself for the incoming swipe of a blade; ruby tresses floated toward him, smooth like the broad edge of the sword, but light and wispy like the girl charging at him.

She was young. Too young to be fighting someone as skilled and feared as the Soldier, but her murderous eyes betrayed her age. They held nothing back except anger, the volatile parasite they’d been conditioned to never allow penetrate their carefully engineered facades. Masks of metal should be less impermeable.

The girl missed as the Soldier dodged to one side and wrapped his metal fingers around her small arm, only to pull her towards him and land a fisted blow to the middle of her stomach with his flesh hand.

The girl flew into the air a few feet, hitting bare concrete with a sharp thud and a soft grunt.

He could have hit her harder, the Soldier registered only after the fact. He did not wince as he envisioned the punishment that would surely come later.

Then she stood, chest heaving with exertion after only ten minutes of fighting. Her tattered shirt, busted lip, and bruised eye were testament to the ease with which she’d been overcome, while the Soldier remained in pristine condition.

With a feral scream, the girl came rushing at him again, her unsheathed pistol in one hand, and a red glint in her cracked marble eyes.

The Soldier immediately broke position, bringing his feet back together and arms to his side. Limp.

Surprise colored the girl’s face momentarily before she lunged at him sloppily, forgetting her weapon.

She was too open and too reckless, her defenses lowered, and footing uneven.

The soldier backhanded her.

Easy.

She fell, bracing herself on both forearms as she hit the floor again, then lowered her head between them. She stayed still—unmoving for a short while. Resigned.

She was finished. She’d lost long before he even made contact with her body.

The Soldier turned to acknowledge the agents safely watching the fight from the edge of the room. Standing between the armed and suited men was his handler, hands placed neatly in front of him, one over the other.

“Please escort Miss Romanov to the holding cell,” said one agent––the man they called Pierce.

Two of the agents ambled over in perfect sync to grab the girl’s arms, and roughly pulled her to her feet.

The girl didn’t resist. Her head was lowered, hair fanned around her face like a veil, and green eyes shocked into stillness. She was angry with herself—they always were, and for that there would be consequences.

The girl was a fighter and could have easily broken free from both agents’ hold, but it was due to the shame from losing the fight, and the cognizance of what awaited her, that she let herself be walked out. Boneless, like a doll, broken and spiritless.

“What a disappointment,” Pierce said, terse voice cutting through the air as he folded his arms behind his back. “ I thought that if anyone could hold their own against the soldier, it’d be her.”

“She’s got time to learn,” the handler said with a firm press of his mouth. Then, “She’s the best we’ve had since Underwood, even at seven years of age.”

“It seems the Red Room lives up to its name, after all,” Pierce mused, with a nod. His lips pursed in thought. “No matter. I want her fixed. I wasted good resources acquiring her and she’s going to be worth every last bit of effort. Though I’m not holding my breath for anything spectacular. Not all our weapons can turn out to be as prolific as the _asset_ here.”

The Soldier stiffened at the mention of his name. _The asset. The soldier._ Everyone knew it was he they were referring to when the words were uttered.

“And what do I do with _him_? He’s been out of cryo for weeks.”

“Wipe him, but don't put him on ice yet. I’ve got a very delicate mission waiting in the wings that requires his expert touch.”

“Yes, sir.”

 

After Pierce had mobilized his guard and disappeared through the automated security doors, his handler turned to him, brown eyes hard and lips turned down with distaste.

“You pulled your punches, Soldat,” the tall, muscular man said, reaching for the restraints tucked away in his back pocket.

The Soldier held out both hands for him, submissive.

He didn’t look as his handler cuffed him. The best way he knew to show his servility was to avoid making eye contact. The punishments were usually less severe when he proved he could behave.

The Soldier wasn’t afraid of them. He didn’t care for their punishments, as unpleasant as they were, but though his handler wasn’t a particularly aggressive man, preferring instruction to punishment, even _he_ had his orders. If he was told to put a bullet through the Soldier’s head, he would, without hesitating. _This_ was the bit he tried to avoid.

“I’m sorry to have to do this,” the handler said, his nonchalance suggesting otherwise. “You know I don’t like to subject you to this torture, but it’d hurt a lot more for you to remember all your kills.”

The Soldier nodded weakly.

He knew his handler was right. His handler was always right. That’s what he’d been told.

But what if the Soldier wanted to remember his crimes? What if he’d decided a long time ago to stop fighting his fate. To embrace the inevitable. He thought he could be more useful to Hydra if he had his memories intact. He’d be able to seamlessly move from mission to mission if they didn’t have to spend days recalibrating him each time he was thawed or wiped.

“Don’t give me that look,” the handler said, stern. “I know what you’re thinking. The answer is still ‘no’.”

The Soldier hadn’t gotten his hopes up anyway.

Without a word, the handler led him down the corridor to the laboratory on the opposite end of the hall.

They liked to keep the Soldier restricted to as short a distance from his containment as possible, that way they could have eyes on him at all times. They thought he wouldn’t know where they were located, but every time he was brought back out, the Soldier’s innate instincts for reconnaissance tended to flare to their utmost capacity. The shock made him extremely sensitive to his surroundings, and thus more able to deduce their whereabouts. It was cumulative.

There was only so much the machines could wipe from his brain. Sometimes information didn’t disappear for good, only got locked away in a drawer, ready to be pulled out when he needed to. He hadn’t learned how to go probing on his own yet; he was never lucid long enough to have the time to practice, but he found that it got easier to access buried files over time. He supposed that’s the reason they’d been wiping him more frequently.

The Soldier looked around for the obvious tells. There weren’t any windows on the underground floors, for one, the ventilation was higher here than on the upper levels, and the subtle hint of methane in the air—undetectable to regular human noses—was unmistakable. They didn’t want him trying to go anywhere on his own. That much was clear. The only way out was up a highly guarded elevator that the Soldier only got permission to use when tasked with a new mission, or sent to train with the other agents. Even then, the entourages of guards they paired him with were usually equipped with enough fire power to subdue five of him.

The Soldier had no intention of betraying Hydra. He wouldn’t have anything waiting for him out in the world anyway. They’d told him everyone he knew was dead.

Once in the laboratory, he was pushed down into a familiar metallic chair. He shivered against the cool surface as he was un-cuffed and tied to it instead.

“This won’t take long,” his handler reminded him.

Sure, it didn’t seem long when you were the spectator looking in. But for the Soldier, five minutes in the chair easily turned into an hour. It would for anyone who had to be strapped down and given a mouth guard to grind on when the pain came on full blast. Then there were the electric shocks, which felt like thousands of hot blades piercing his skull and frying every nerve end in his body. The pain was the one thing he never forgot, no matter how many times he went through it. This would be his third time being wiped since coming out of cryo last.

When he was properly attached to the machine, his handler gave the mechanics a nod of approval, and the machine thrummed to life.

The Soldier braced himself, fingers curling into his palms, and teeth biting down on the mouth guard.

The second the electricity made contact with his skull, he let out a pained growl. All he could see through the blurriness of his wet eyes was the way his handler looked back at him with arms crossed, and a deep crease set in his brow.

 

Several hours later the Soldier was given a proper meal.

Electrolytes. They said it was something he needed. He didn’t know why, didn’t care, just took whatever they gave him.

“Pierce will be wanting to brief you in on a mission he has prepared. He won’t be by until tomorrow, but I thought I’d give you a warning. Pierce, you might not remember, is in charge of this facility and, for now, the Winter Soldier project as well. You must listen to everything he tells you.”

The Soldier nodded, stuffing his face with a cut of plain beef and boiled vegetables. He was ravenous; didn’t know when was the last time he’d eaten, but he guessed it’d been a while if the sounds his stomach was making moments ago were anything to go by.

“Chew slowly,” his handler told him, gently. “You’ll feel less hungry afterwards.”

The Soldier slowed down. He didn’t like the command, but orders were orders.

His handler sighed. “You just listen to everything I tell you, don’t you?”

The Soldier’s lower lip quivered. His handler did not seem happy. Had his handler hoped he would refuse compliance?

“I apologize.”

The handler laughed. “No, you did well, Soldier. Sometimes I just forget how well trained you are. Like a loyal dog.”

The Soldier’s lips quirked down slightly at that. “Dogs don’t sleep inside or eat with their handlers.”

The man contemplated the words before finally nodding his assent. “I suppose not.”

The Soldier was glad he hadn’t spoken out of turn.

“Finish your meal,” the handler told him, standing. “I have something to take care of, but I’ll return tomorrow to go over your exercises. I need to reevaluate your reflexes, make sure they’re still sharp after the wipe.”

“Yes, sir,” the Soldier said, looking back to his plate. The beef was all gone, and there were only vegetables left. He pushed them around for a while before stabbing a green bean with his fork and popping it into his mouth, chewing slowly like he’d been instructed to.

“Good,” the handler said, and left.

The Soldier was looking forward to later. The muscles in his back and shoulders were tense, and for some reason he really wanted to hit something.

He hadn’t told anyone this, for fear of being put back into the chair, but whilst he was being wiped, a flash of blue and red passed his lids. An image— with features he could not make out: indistinguishable carvings on a pale sphere of flesh. He’d found himself wanting to reach out for it, to try to take hold of its two-dimensional form. Something...something told him it belonged to him. To the Soldier. But what could it be? The Soldier did not own anything. The Soldier could not want anything. And this had infuriated him. _Why? Why can’t I_ want? Why can’t I _have_?

Then he’d found himself wanting to break free from his restraints, to unleash his bubbling contempt at everybody in the room watching him like an animal in a cage, to gouge their eyeballs, snap their necks, and break their limbs in retribution for holding him here against his will. For a short moment, it’d felt like he belonged elsewhere. That he had something waiting for him outside these bare walls of concrete and metal.

But it passed; the image faded, and with it the anger that had possessed him like a wraith. Why would he flee when he didn’t even know to what end? The Soldier could not act without purpose. He wouldn’t. Not for flashes of colors, blurry faces, or phantom anythings. Not unless directed to. It wasn’t in his programming.

 

The Soldier was taken back to his confined quarters after dinner. He was sore from the wipe—his handler informed him it had been necessary procedure for an upcoming mission Pierce had commissioned him for, but the Soldier didn’t fully grasp why. What could he possibly know… or have known, that might jeopardize his task?

He chose not to dwell on the question. He needed to maintain a clear mind above all else; his instincts were telling him that was how he had managed to survive this long.

“Rest,” a guard told him before leaving to stand watch at the other side of the door.

The Soldier looked around the sparse room, at the simple cot, a thin blanket, and flat pillow. He didn’t really need much else. He wasn’t really a person. Not quite an animal. Something in between.

 _This is what I deserve_.

 

The next day the Soldier was taken to the training facility adjacent to the underground lot. The guards had parted for him at the heavily protected elevator and followed him all the way to his new destination. Once there, he was handed off to his handler, and a group of other agents who looked ready to intervene if the Soldier’s programming were to break and he suddenly became agitated or violent.

The Soldier had been warned against doing anything that might harm the agents inside, which lead him to believe he might’ve acted out in the past. Why else would he have been so contained? So guarded?

“Pierce will be arriving in the afternoon, in the meantime I want you to train with some of the new recruits. They’re human, not powered like yourself, so you’re not to use deadly force.”

The Soldier nodded imperceptibly, which made the handler angry.

“Soldat!”

“Yes, sir.” The Soldier snapped to attention.

“Do you understand your orders?”

The Soldier nodded again with more emphasis. “Yes, sir!”

The handler eyed him warily before whispering something to one of the agents at his side. The man was heavily protected with armor and carried a large weapon of unknown make to the Soldier— apparently more advanced than the standard Hydra agent firearm.

When the handler turned back to him, he said: “Slowly, some of your latest memories will start to return, and you’ll remember who I am and what you do, and when that happens I promise everything will become clear. You’ll become less excitable, and your survival instincts will stop reverting to overdrive. We go through this every time you get wiped.”

The Soldier didn’t know what the handler meant by _overdrive_.

For some indiscernible reason, the handler sighed.

“In you go. I’ll have you wrestle some of our mid-tier operatives; don’t hesitate to rough them up a bit. Just remember what I said about using deadly force.”

“Yes, sir.”

 

The first agent was no problem at all. Within minutes he’d gotten thrown across the room, pummeled to the ground, and left with what could possibly be a minor concussion. That was the end of that fight.

The next agent was slightly more of a challenge. She was fast and the Soldier was bulky, which made him susceptible to fighting styles like hers, which took advantage of differences in weight class. She used his weight against him, but as soon as he became aware of the agent’s tendency to leave herself open just before shifting from defensive to offensive, he was able to give her a taste of her own medicine. Ultimately, the Soldier came out the victor.

When he’d defeated about a dozen agents, the Soldier looked at the clock and noticed it was a quarter past the time the handler had said he would be back for him. The guards were still nearby to keep a watchful eye, but weren’t imposing themselves on him—for fear of getting too close to the metal arm, perhaps. So the Soldier waited by the wall as the younger recruits began to trickle in for their sparring sessions.

This was one of several training facilities on the compound, but the others were currently in the middle of renovations, his handler had explained. Something about damages caused by other soldiers just like him. The younger recruits wouldn’t have been in here under many other circumstances.

He crossed his arms, leaned back, and tried to make himself invisible. The Soldier felt wary being around so many people, especially little ones. Most couldn’t be older than thirteen years old.

Their hardened faces and experienced movements meant they’d been at this for a while. To train this young… To give up so much of themselves. These were children doing the jobs most adults couldn’t.

The Soldier had to wonder if he had given up nearly as much. If at one point _he’d_ had a normal childhood.

He watched them for a while, scrutinizing each one of their errors and making corrections in his head, but none captured his attention more than the little girl with ruby red hair who was easily taking on a boy twice her size. She worked his own weapon against him, twisting his arm from behind so that it pointed at his chest, and then she pulled towards her to bring the wooden club hard against him. He lost his breath, and the girl wasted no time in delivering the finishing blow. He surrendered before she could do any lasting damage.

She had been more than capable of ending him, but that she didn’t gave the Soldier the impression she’d been given the same orders as him: _do not kill_.

There was something in her mannerisms and way of fighting that reminded the Soldier of someone, but as much as he tried to conjure up a face, he had no recollection as to who it might be.

When the trainers called for a momentary break, the girl broke out of her murderous trance, and her eyes snapped straight to his. Her lips twitched downward and then back up like she had something to say.

The Soldier didn’t move; he felt uncomfortable. Why was the girl looking at him that way? Had they met before?

He wasn’t supposed to speak to anyone without permission, and he doubted the recruits could just waltz up to anybody and engage in small talk either, but that’s exactly what the little girl did. She tossed the remainder of her water back and made her way towards the corner of the room he had selected as his hiding spot. Clearly not a very good one in hindsight.

She looked up at him, her eyes calculative. She couldn’t be any older than maybe eight years old, but she looked it. Her gaze was not that of a child’s, though he wasn’t exactly sure he knew what a child’s gaze even looked like. It had been so long.

Hydra wasn’t in the business of targeting small children, and on the off-chance that they did, they wouldn’t pick the Winter Soldier to do it. Children were easy and didn’t require much effort to subdue. Still, he supposed some agents might be morally adverse to the act, and in that case the Soldier was probably the most efficient choice. He barely had any remorse left in his body, and his memories were constantly being wiped anyway. He wouldn’t remember killing an innocent child if it came down to it.

This girl looked like she’d be able to take him down one day, though—once she got more practice in her. Suddenly the thought of fighting her didn’t seem all so vile. He bet the little girl might even enjoy it. The challenge. She had that fire in her eyes—that coquettish glint for danger.

The Soldier did not smile, could not, but if a little spark of joy ignited in his gut, it was when he imagined teaching the girl to become the best asset Hydra could ever want—better than even him.

The trainer called the _recruits_ back to their fighting—if that was even the correct word to use—and the Soldier watched as they all found a partner and took their stances.

“Soldat!” called a gruff voice.

At the door was his handler, waiting with arms behind his back.

The Soldier leaned off the wall and followed him out the room, the guards trailing behind them for security as they escorted him back to the underground facility.

The elevator hummed with a low buzz as it descended.

His handler didn’t look at him, but spoke in a low voice. “Pierce has arrived and is waiting for you in the briefing room. He asked to speak to you alone.”

The Soldier did not know what that entailed. He didn’t remember this man, _Pierce_ , and therefore couldn’t gauge the threat.

“Relax, Soldat,” the handler said. “As long as you remain quiet and attentive, nothing unpleasant will happen to you.”

The Soldier knew better than to ask questions. He still had so many.

The doors opened and the Soldier was brought to the briefing room: a small room illuminated only by a low-hanging bulb, with a metal table bolted to the concrete floor, and matching chairs on either side.

They’d probably built this room just for him.

“Take a seat, Soldier,” the man he assumed was Pierce, said. He was a middle aged man with graying dark blond hair and and intelligent blue eyes. They watched him with caution and disinterest all at once.

The Soldier did as instructed, but his posture was rigid. At attention.

Pierce seemed pleased, but didn’t take the seat across from him like he thought he would.

He waited for the handler to leave the room, the guards nodding to Pierce before closing the door—a reminder to them both that they’d be outside should anything happen.

 _This man must be incredibly important to warrant the trouble_ , the Soldier surmised.

When the door shut with a metallic click, Pierce took one look at the Soldier, and then started pacing around the room, at ease.

“They told me you’ve been wiped, as per my instructions,” he said, pleased. “I’m not one to beat around the bush, Soldier, so let’s get straight to business.”

He came to the table and opened a laptop the Soldier didn’t even realize had been placed there.

The screen lit up with one single image. A man. A tall man with white hair and a narrow face. Something about his dark eyes jogged a deeply burrowed memory within the Soldier’s mind.

“Who is he?” He forced himself to ask. His voice was thin and creaky from misuse.

Pierce pressed his lips together before saying, “That is classified information. Your only concern should be how to eliminate him.” He started walking around the room again.

“We’ve tracked his movements for the next couple of days. He’s currently vacationing with his family in Malibu, but our intel says he’ll be driving to the airport tonight to conduct S.H.I.E.L.D business in New York. An interception point has been set on a removed highway location, and all I’m asking of you, Soldier—listen very closely— is to make his death look like the result of a mere vehicular collision. Can I trust you to do this?”

The Soldier, who’d let his mind wander, realized he’d clenched his flesh hand all this time. He unfurled it discreetly and laid it flat against his thigh.

“Yes, _sir_ ”

A vehicle collision. He could do that.

The rest of Pierce’s words got lost amidst the whirring from cog wheels turning in his mind. As long as he had his objective he didn’t care when or where the mission took place. The _why_ was a blurry line he didn’t want to cross.

“I’ll leave it in your hands then,” Pierce said, leaving him.

The Soldier was still seated when his handler came in to collect him.

“Need to get you prepped,” the man said, and the Soldier stared one last time at the photo on the screen before following him out.

 

The Soldier hid patiently on his motorcycle under a canopy of trees off the side of the road. It was dark and he’d been sitting there for over an hour, but he didn’t stir. It seemed his body had grown accustomed to being as still as the surrounding flora; he didn’t feel any sort of strain or discomfort. He imagined having this skill had probably come in handy on particularly drawn-out occasions like these.

“The target has turned onto the road toward your location,” his handler said through comms. “Get ready.”

The Soldier muttered a couple of Russian words in assent, and gripped the handlebars of his bike.

They’d been on his target’s tail all day so he could have tried following him into the secluded road from the hotel, but the main roads were riddled with businesses, and the Soldier had wanted to avoid being caught trailing the target’s vehicle on any of their security cameras. Out here he was anonymous. There was no way to trace his involvement in what was to come. No reason for anyone to think that what would happen had been the work of foul play. He had even plotted an alternate route through the trees to avoid detection. It’d be hours before footage of him appeared on any video feed.

The distant rumbling of a car around the bend informed the Soldier it was time. He waited for the headlights illuminating the pebbly texture of the road to beam past him before igniting his engine and following after the silver car.

The Soldier could see the familiar short white hair of the man in the picture through the car’s rearview mirror. Whoever he was, he didn’t seem to take notice of the Soldier.

Wanting to pull up close beside the moving car, the Soldier turned to dominate the right side of the road. When he was able to extend his arm and touch the vehicle with his metal hand, he reached into his pocket for one of the EMPs Hydra had supplied him before setting him loose, and slapped it on the tinted passenger side window.

He accelerated and peered over his shoulder to watch as the driver swerved left, probably thinking he’d hit the biker on his right, only to crash straight into a tree.

The Soldier u-turned, came to a screechy stop, and eyed the billowy smoke rising from the nascent fire that poked through the crushed hood of the car.

Part one of the mission was complete. Part two was next: retrieving the briefcase inside the trunk.

He pried the hood open easily, and inside sat a metal case with a combination lock. The Soldier merely crushed the brassy metal between his fingers and opened it, uncovering packets of blue biological material upon a bed of ice.

Step three. The final step.

The target had gotten out of the driver’s seat and crawled on all fours to the dirt ground.

It would have been much simpler if the man had just died on impact, but the Soldier would have no trouble correcting that issue.

His boots crunched against clumps of dirt and rock, littered with bits and pieces of wood. The man looked up, eyes trailing no farther than mid-thigh when the Soldier grabbed the back of his head and pulled him up.

The man’s face was bloody, and he was panting like a dying animal in the middle of a busy road, but his eyes were large and alive.

“ _Sergeant Barnes_?” The man said, shaky. Blood dripped from his nose into his mouth, and he spluttered.

Despite the strong inclination to finish the job quickly, the Soldier took a careful look at the older man’s cold and gaunt face. This was the face of a man who had lost the flickering flame of purpose. A face aged and deprived of soul nourishment.

A face like the Soldier’s.

He didn’t recognize the name. No, he was not Sergeant Barnes. He was not anybody. He _did_ recognize the sneaky brown eyes of his target, however. Dark puddles of brown with tiny flecks of mustard yellow. An ugly, familiar yellow.

The Soldier grimaced and gripped the short hair harder.

The man’s eyes glinted with the reflected light from the raised metal hand, but they did not beg.

Pride. A foolish human characteristic, yet one the Soldier could admit to being in awe of. It took a certain level of stupidity and braveness to be proud. Not many could strike the perfect balance, but this man had managed it.

It was a shame perfection would not save him. Not as long as the Soldier had a mission to complete.

He pummeled the man’s face with his metal fist, once, twice, three times, and then a fourth for good measure. When the Soldier could sense the body going limp in his grasp, he dragged the body back into the driver’s seat and propped the bloody face against the steering wheel.

In the passenger’s seat was a factor he hadn’t been anticipating.

A woman, close in age to the man—perhaps his wife—was rousing to consciousness, eyes closed and lips parted, and mumbling a string of incoherent words, among them one the Soldier could actually capture: _Howard_.

The name tasted like a musty winter night from long ago. He brushed the thought away and turned his attention back to the woman.

“ _No witnesses, Soldier_.”

 _No_ , the Soldier thought, eyeing her briefly before walking around the wrecked car to her side. _No witnesses_.

He didn’t think he’d ever killed a woman like this before. There was no way to know, seeing as how his memories had been wiped, but he wanted to believe this would be the first time. That Hydra wouldn’t have sent him on this mission if the man and the woman didn’t deserve it. That there was cause for doing all the things he did. A purpose. There had to be. After all, he’d been told he was more than just Hydra’s fist.

“ _You’re humanity’s gift_ ,” Pierce told him, eyes leery and mouth quirked up, before leaving the briefing room. “ _A true blessing in this war-ravaged world, and one day your name will appear in every history textbook on every continent. You will be lauded a hero_.”

The Soldier didn’t use the metal hand this time; the other would fit just as nicely around the brittle neck.

 _The Winter Soldier_.

The Soldier’s lips would’ve quirked up if they could.

_A Hero._

He squeezed, and one more putrid “ _last breath_ ” was harvested in the name of Hydra: the bringers of peace.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next chapter will be the last without Steve in it. Chapter 8 and onwards will feature Stucky/Stevebucky everywhere!


	7. Spools of Red

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hydra isn't happy with his performances, Natalia is a good friend, and Bucky remembers more than he should.

**2003**

'  
`

“The data room has been secured.”

“Meet at the rendezvous point in fifteen.”

The Soldier walked along the metallic wall, his footsteps light as he peered around the corner. The hall was clear, though he didn’t fail to spot the security camera mounted in front of the room he was sent to plunder.

He reached into his belt for an EMP, the new-age ones that put 90’s gadgets by the same name to shame, and packed enough punch to disable any device without causing a widespread shutdown to nearby power systems.

With a perfectly aimed throw, the camera stuttered and popped, and the Soldier strode to the protected door.

Steel alloy, about two tons, maybe half a foot thick. The door was built to be impenetrable, but so was everything these days, and the Soldier hadn’t quite yet come across a door he couldn’t open. This one could easily do with a sound absorptive detonator— a prototype Hydra explosive able to crack through heavy metal doors with a quarter of the cleanup. As long as nobody was roaming the adjacent halls to hear the noise, the Soldier gave himself approximately seven minutes to get in, grab what he needed, and get out.

When he was inside— the wreckage from the explosion (bolts and scraps) laying beyond the threshold— the Soldier scanned the array of multi-colored safes and cases for the one marked “ _0-8-4 TPT_.”

They seemed to be ordered alphanumerically.

The “Fridge” was a treasure trove. One Hydra had been waiting years to break into ever since most of their alien technology was taken in the 40’s. It was only a shame that they’d be walking out of here with just one package, and a flash drive of data that may not even contain new or imperative information on S.H.I.E.L.D.

Whatever he’d been sent to recover, the Soldier only knew he was to treat it as something precious.

The Soldier stepped farther inside the large, safe-like room, and started to search the labels on the cases.

0-3-5 B… 0-3-7 B… 0-5-3 E… 0-6-4 G…0-6-8 L… 0-8-9 P… _0-8-4 T…P…T_.

_Found it._

The Soldier grabbed the small black box and turned his heel. He barreled through the door, the stairwell in sight, only to come to a full stop when a pair of S.H.I.E.L.D agents rounded the corner and spotted him, their weapons not yet drawn.

By the time he’d pulled out his gun, one of the agents had already called for reinforcements, and the alarm sounded.

He fired two shots into the agents’ chests and bounded up the stairs.

“This is Romanov, what is your position?”

“Fifth floor, stairwell,” he responded, voice flat.

“I’m almost done here, will head out in two minutes.” He noted the ice-like quality of her tone, but brushed it off.

As the Soldier was passing the seventh floor stairwell, he heard the crash of metal doors opening one floor below. “There he is!”

The Soldier peered down, counting five men on his tail, and quickened his pace to three steps at a time.

Someone fired at him, narrowly missing his head; the bullet burrowed into the wall. Another shot, and this one the Soldier blocked with his metal arm.

When he made it to the ninth floor, he dropped a grenade into the stairwell, closed the door, and jumped for cover. The explosion wasn’t as loud as he had hoped it would be, but the muffled sounds of men screaming assured him it’d done the job.

“I’m on the ninth,” he said into comms.

He wasn’t expecting a response. He’d only been working with Romanov for two weeks but had quickly discovered she had just two settings: non-verbal and nosy. When on the line of duty, Romanov was as reliable as they come—focused only on the task at hand. Once the mission was all over, then the unprompted narration of events would come.

Whoever had trained her hadn’t done a very thorough job teaching her to mind her business even after missions were completed, the Soldier thought shrewdly.

The Soldier quickly located the northern wall, and proceeded to carve a large hole the size of a door with his laser torch. The metal fell away, revealing the hot beachy landscape on which the aptly named “Fridge” facility had been built.

“Very efficient, I see,” said a smooth voice from behind him.

“Natalia.” The Soldier acknowledged. He hadn’t heard her coming. As expected.

Natalia scoffed and showed the Soldier the USB with the newly acquired S.H.I.E.L.D data, before pocketing it safely.

“You got the package, I presume.”

The Soldier didn’t dignify that with a response. She knew damn well he’d gotten it. There was no other outcome he’d possibly be able to explain to his handler, or the higher-ups.

“Reporting from the point of extraction,” the Soldier said into his receiver.

There was a click, and then a few seconds later a gruff male voice: “Stand by. Approaching extraction point.”

“So,” Natalia said, eyeing the end of the hall where a small group of S.H.I.E.L.D agents had appeared. “Gimme a hand?”

They both drew their guns and shot back at the men opening fire on them. It took only a few seconds for them to slaughter the enemy, being as skilled as they were. When the last man had fallen, Natalia aimed a quick grin at the Soldier, and motioned toward the hole in the wall with her head.

“Ladies first,” she said, teasing.

The Soldier could hear the approaching chopper before he saw it descend as close to the building as possible, and dropped a ladder, which the Soldier leapt to grab a hold of. Natalia followed suit.

They were in the air when a small team of agents emerged from the entrance of the facility below, a large artillery cannon in tow.

Natalia scoffed. “I thought this was S.H.I.E.L.D’s most heavily guarded facility.”

A blast shot past their chopper, missing by a foot.

“As if using puny artillery against us weren’t already offensive, they can’t even aim.”

The Soldier concurred. There was something off about the ease with which they’d completed the mission. S.H.I.E.L.D knew artillery. It knew strong defense. Theoretically speaking, the Soldier and the Widow should never have gotten as far into the facility as they did in the first place.

Someone had to have been pulling strings from the inside. That was the only way he could fathom the mission being such a walk in the park. He had a feeling that reports on the incident would also be scarce—hushed up. How embarrassing would it be if news spread that the safest building on this side of the hemisphere had been infiltrated by two assassins? The press would have a field day.

No, S.H.I.E.L.D would never allow it; they’d cover up this incident if it was the last thing they did. Their pride was too large and easily bruised.

Hydra wouldn’t let them have any piece of mind. One way or another, the news would get out. The people would lose faith in S.H.I.E.L.D, and Hydra’s newly planted seeds of doubt would have the nourishment they needed to blossom into something dreadful, but beautiful.

This—this small victory—would mark the beginning of Hydra’s public coup against S.H.I.E.L.D, and would clear the path for them to rise as the new protectors of the people.

'  
`

Hydra had changed a lot in the last 10 years. Pierce no longer oversaw the Winter Soldier project, but instead held a chair at S.H.I.E.L.D as one of its board members. The Soldier had not come into contact with him since last being wiped, nor had memory of ever meeting the man despite his new handler assuring him they went way back.

“Pierce has requested your audience,” the handler told him, an accusative edge in his voice. The Soldier wondered what he might’ve done wrong now for this to be the way he was greeted back at the new Hydra base: a faux lumber factory hidden deep within a forest somewhere in Massachusetts.

The compound was enclosed by a high voltage fence, and protected by armed guards who rotated shifts three times a day, and who lumbered about their posts as if possessing no real talent for much else. At least that much was authentic to the facade of the place.

The Soldier had noticed that there never seemed to be a scarcity of Hydra agents around, though it hardly seemed surprising given the anti-S.H.I.E.L.D propaganda posted in every hallway, decrying the importance of Hydra’s peace efforts, and announcing its unwavering resistance to opposition.  _Cut off one head and two more shall take its place._ About fifteen new agents appeared at the facility every week. More, if there had been an astronomical defeat.

 _How eager men are to give their lives to a cause they don’t even believe in_ , the Soldier thought.

Hydra didn’t tell its agents everything. Many recruits had come in thinking they were doing the correct thing—and the Soldier wasn’t one to say it wasn’t—but he had learned in just the past few weeks that no organization was completely in the right. Organizations were run by people, and he couldn’t think of a single person alive who didn’t have a dark side, or didn’t conceal some portion of the truth to forward his own agenda.

Sometimes a small, feeble light appeared in front of him to contest this belief. It blinked despondently, as if it might lose strength when a cynical or dubious thought crossed the Soldier’s mind. It glinted like a shard of some shattered gem, or a piece of some incomplete puzzle the Soldier had unknowingly tried to put together.

The light was at its brightest when he woke from a long sleep. The handlers didn’t know the Soldier sometimes dreamt of memories long forgotten whilst in cryo—but it diminished gradually, and then burned out after every wipe, only to come back slowly, debilitated, and pleading for the Soldier to remember.

The light wasn’t a thing. It was  _person_. He knew because it sometimes felt like a pair of bright blue eyes watching him.

He’d tried to ignore it many times. Had tried to push it out, but it always flickered back on. Now, when it appeared, the Soldier let it linger. Let it accompany him—illuminating some deep corner of his mind—like a night light. A companion. A flickering hint of some buried humanity inside him. When the Soldier sent things into the earth they usually stayed interred, but the little light had fight, and refused to fade away.

The Soldier grew quite fond of it.

'  
`

The handler, a dark man with short black hair, bulging biceps, and a permanent frown etched on his aged face, led him away from Natalia who was being whisked in the opposite direction by her handler: an equally frightening woman who towered over all of them at six-three.

The Soldier made eye contact with the red-head briefly, and the two shared a moment of recognition—a forlorn acceptance of the fact that they probably wouldn’t see each other until the Soldier had been wiped again, and he would no longer know her.

It was a farewell; for the Soldier, the first, and for Natalia, just one of dozens.

With a rough push to his back, the Soldier was steered around a corner, and out of the young woman’s sight.

“I don’t need to remind you to be on your best behavior,” the handler said. “You may be Pierce’s favorite toy, but he no longer heads this division; I report to someone new, and they have not been pleased with your recent performances.”

The Soldier gritted his teeth, knowing that the handler would not see it.

Perhaps ten years ago his handlers would have expected him to bow his head and apologize, but his new handler didn’t accept “sorry.” He wanted results. And though the Soldier had proven himself over and over again, had shown that he could deliver, lately Hydra’s heads were not appeased by his efforts. Just three weeks ago he’d been sent to Siberia to extract a team of undercover high-level operatives, whose identities had been compromised by an agent of S.H.I.E.L.D. The operatives had at least managed to disrupt the agent’s transmissions to S.H.I.E.LD before word of his suspicions could be spread, but the agent was not alone, and the Hydra operatives had been ordered to not take action. It would have been one thing to kill an agent, but to kill a team of them would’ve drawn the wrong attention.

When the S.H.I.E.L.D agent tried to restore communication channels in secret, to send an encrypted message back to headquarters, Hydra had no choice but to order the Soldier to take down the whole base. The Soldier was supposed to cross out the S.H.I.E.L.D agents and a couple of Hydra spies, to subvert suspicions of Hydra being amidst S.H.I.E.L.D’s ranks, but the Soldier had failed. The explosion meant to do the job failed to go off promptly, giving the S.H.I.E.L.D agent in question enough time to get out of the blast’s range of maximized impact. He sustained serious burns and injuries but did not die, and now lay in a hospital room expecting to make some recovery.

The plan hadn’t been completely thwarted, as far as he knew, and it was a reassurance that Pierce was in on the inside to sway the director and the board to his persuasion, were suspicions to arise, but the call had been close, and there was still a chance the S.H.I.E.L.D agent could stir up some trouble for Hydra should he regain his ability to speak.

The Soldier suspected the Hydra operatives still working within S.H.I.E.L.D had been told to be more cautious than ever. Pierce above anyone else.

'  
`

The Soldier and his handler entered a secure room where the upper members of Hydra conducted their meetings. There was a long rectangular glass table with a dozen chairs tucked underneath, lit by a row of recess lights overhead that emboldened the industrial room’s neat and sterile appearance. Behind the head of the table was a pulled down screen on which Pierce’s face was projected in full frame.

“It’s about time,” the older man said, pressing his lips together. His eyes followed the Soldier, cold, as he made his way to the front, and stood just far enough from the screen so that Pierce could see him from the waist up.

The Soldier’s handler remained behind him—the conference was, after all, with the Asset and not him.

“I don’t blame you for what has happened.” Was the first thing Pierce said.

The Soldier wanted to react, but knew better than to show any emotion, positive or negative, that might get him a one way ticket to the chair.

“You couldn’t have known the explosive was faulty—it was the engineers’ faults for not checking properly—nor could you know that the S.H.I.E.L.D agent would find the bomb before it detonated.”

There was a bated silence in the air as he paused.

“While _I_  know this—and have faith in your abilities—I must stress that the head of Hydra is none too pleased with you, and there’s very little I’ve been able to do to keep you from being  _fridged_ , or worse,  _terminated_ ,” Pierce said, letting the words cut through the air with their full effect. He was being callous. To anyone else, the words would have felt like taking a dagger to the stomach.

“You have one last chance, Soldier. To get back in their good graces, and fortunately for you, it’s one I think you’ll be able to pull off.

“There is a S.H.I.E.L.D outpost in Russia currently investigating illegal child assassin rings, and our dear friends at Red Room are concerned that they may be scouting a little too close to home. Hydra relies on the Red Room to supply us with young and promising operatives, and so it is in our best interest to aid them in their time of need.”

The Soldier tensed. He’d heard about Red Room—how they took young girls— sometimes stolen and other times sold—and trained them to become killing machines. Most weren’t strong enough to do what they were asked to do, and were either killed in training or thrown out to die in the streets. Those who were unlucky to make it through to the last levels were sold off to entities like Hydra—people who would treat them no differently than they treated a rifle gun, and who would force them to do their bidding, whatever that may be.

One form of enslavement in exchange for another. The Soldier knew a lot of what that was like.

“I’m sending you and a partner to Russia tonight. More details will be given to you on the plane ride there. I only felt it necessary to convey this information myself, given how precarious your situation is, and how deeply I’ve been entangled in matters regarding your…well-being. There are those who have put the blame solely in my court, Soldier, and for that reason you are not permitted to fail.”

Pierce straightened up in his chair, and lifted a hand to loosen his tie. His face was contorted into a mean grimace. He was pressured; the Soldier could see it now.

“Do not let me down, Soldier.”

The connection was severed.

'  
`

The Soldier didn’t know what he had expected to find when he boarded the small jet that would take them to Russia, but it certainly wasn’t the Black Widow.

Natalia was cleaned up, dressed in casual civilian clothes, and she was alone. Her red hair was tied back in a ponytail, and her eyes hidden beneath a dark green baseball cap. She was asleep, her head bent down at an unnatural angle, and she didn’t stir when the Soldier’s heavy steps took him to the seat opposite from hers.

The Soldier’s handler boarded the jet shortly before take off, and went to speak some words with the pilot. The Soldier didn’t make it obvious he was looking their way, but he could see the man from the corner of his eye, standing beside the pilot, looking out to the runway as he relayed the new coordinates.

The engine of the plane rumbled below him, warming up for the long flight.

Natalia was still fast asleep, and the Soldier thought he should probably get some rest as well. There was no guarantee they’d have time for it once they touched down and the mission began.

The Soldier made sure he was properly fastened in his seat and then burrowed back into the chair. He closed his eyes, hoping sleep wouldn’t elude him, like it did most nights.

He’d be content with getting just one hour.

Just one.

'  
`

When they arrived in Russia, it was a quarter ’till 9:00pm and the Soldier startled awake. He’d managed to sleep the entire ride long. Once he gathered his bearings, he saw that Natalia was wide awake. She didn’t look the least bit fatigued, like she’d been awake for hours.

His handler walked over, explained to them their objective for the next three days. He told them the Red Room had provided a safe-house for them in some part of the woods behind the institution, and that they were expected to stay the night there until Natalia’s clearance at the nearby S.H.I.E.LD base could be approved, and she reported there for duty the next morning. Pierce had managed to get her a position as a new recruit, to retrieve intel that would make the Soldier’s job—phase two of the plan—a lot easier.

Before the week was over, this branch of S.H.I.E.L.D had to be completely decimated. Those were Pierce’s demands.

“We need to burn S.H.I.E.L.D from the inside,” his handler said. “Destroy all relevant information about Red Room from the database and then eliminate the present threat.”

The first was a job for Natalia; the second, for the Soldier.

This was what made their combination so useful. Why the Hydra agents often referred to them as the  _Brain and Brawn_  of Hydra’s American outpost.

Nobody could best Natalia at espionage and hacking. Nobody could compete with the Soldier hand to hand.

Together they were a deadly pair—nearly unstoppable.

The handler gave them their keys and their backpacks full of supplies and weapons, and they hopped on a pair of motorcycles that would take them to the safe house.

Ten minutes later they arrived.

The Soldier opened the door and went inside, Natalia trailing after him. The safe-house—more like a cabin—was rustic and sparsely decorated, but it had the necessary amenities for a week’s stay.

Natalia walked over to the fridge in the small kitchen and hummed contentedly when she saw it was fully stocked. There was enough food inside to last them the mission, and the Soldier was grateful for the fact they wouldn’t have to go out to get more. The more time they had to work, the quicker they were going to get out of here, and the sooner he’d be able to finally present Pierce with good results.

“I hope you’ve worked up an appetite,” Natalia said, grabbing a carton of eggs from the fridge, and salt and pepper from a cupboard over the stove.

The Soldier didn’t know Natalia could cook.

He didn’t say anything, only walked over and started scouring the cabinets for a pan while Natalia grabbed a whisk from the drawer next to the sink.

“I still haven’t thanked you, you know,” Natalia said, cracking the eggs on the counter. “For getting me out of that tight spot three weeks ago. I didn’t think they’d send an extraction team for me; I even started thinking that’s how I was going to finally go down.”

The Soldier said nothing as he opened and closed several small doors. When he found what he was looking for, he put the pan on the burner, and watched Natalia wield a knife to expertly chop some tomatoes.

“I know it doesn’t mean anything to you. You’ve been out of it too long to remember, but we’ve been paired for longer than I can recall. We met when I was seven, and you started training me when I was nine.”

Nothing Natalia said rang a bell. Part of the Soldier was frustrated that the words felt foreign and unfamiliar, but the rest of him was glad for it. The less he knew of his past, the easier it was to pretend he’d always been cold and calculating. Natalia’s words offered him something he had no need for: warmth.

“At first I gave you a lot of trouble,” Natalia said, chuckling to herself as she relived a personal anecdote—a memory involving the Soldier, that ironically he didn’t feel privy to.

“I don’t care about what happened in the past,” the Soldier said, walking into the living space, which was separated from the kitchen by a low wall. He took a seat in an old armchair across the small window in the front of the house. “Neither should you.”

Natalia pursed her lips, but he didn’t see it.

“You say that every time we’re put together, and yet we always go through the same motions: trying to keep away—maintaining a professional relationship wherein you get all the orders and I just tag along like some second-rate sidekick. I can beat you now, you know.” She said that last part with venom.

The Soldier heard the knife hit the chopping board with a loud and dense  _thunk_.

“I’m not seven, or nine, or even sixteen. I can hold my own.”

The Soldier stared out the frosted glass—saw the jumble of huddled evergreen pines pointing to a dark ultramarine sky.

The stars were out tonight. He couldn’t see them in the city, but out here, they shone bright. Clear.

“But then something always happens,” Natalia continued. “We go on a mission alone—just the two of us— and you save me, or in a moment of oversight you stumble and I cover for you, and then we get dragged back into this loop of time only to repeat this exact moment…have this exact talk.”

The aroma of scrambled eggs and cooked tomato started to waft through the crisp cabin air. The Soldier’s stomach made a pitiful sound.

He ignored it.

“You have to stop letting them put you in that chair,” she said, shutting off the flame. “We can’t keep playing this game. I can’t keep trying to restore a piece of your humanity only for you to have lost it the next time we meet. You need to  _remember_ , James.”

A wolf yowled in the distance.

The Soldier flew from his seat, stormed into the kitchen, and pushed Natalia so that the edge of the counter dug into the small of her back. His metal hand was around her neck, and the other beside her waist, caging her in.

He was breathing hard, vision shaking uncontrollably, trying to lock onto something in her face—anything to explain why she was saying these things to him—but he didn’t know what.

Natalia’s own eyes were large, unwavering, and her face was turning purple.

“ _You don’t get to say that name_ ,” he spat, the words sounding distant even to his ears.

Why did he say that?

Natalia latched onto his spell of confusion and the loosening of his grip on her neck to sneak in a few words. Her voice was breathy. “I searched the hacked files at the Fridge,” she said. “I knew there had to be something there—some information on the mysterious Soldier who’d been wreaking havoc for decades. An image—“ She wheezed. “I cross-referenced a saved image of your face from one of the S.H.I.E.L.D security cameras we wiped ages ago. The clearest one we had on file. There was a match.”

The Soldier instantly dropped the metal hand, as if it still had feeling in it. As if it could burn. And stepped back.

“They have a file on you almost half the size of Captain America’s,” she said, and cleared her throat. “He was your friend. Did you know that?”

The Soldier’s ears were whooshing with the blood pumping to his head. He didn’t want to hear this.

“Your name was James Barnes. You were in the army together. Before that you were childhood friends, and before that just neighbors. You gave your life trying to protect him.”

“I—I don’t know…” the Soldier tried to say. Tried to push away the words Natalia was spewing like acid.

“I bet you’ve thought all this time you were a monster,” Natalia said, voice gentle now, but insistent. “That you didn’t have a single redeemable particle in your body. Well I’m here to tell you that’s not true.”

She tried to approach him, but the Soldier backed away with a growl and then brought down his flesh fist on a wooden coffee table, putting a dent in it.

Natalia kept her distance.

“Why are you telling me this?” The Soldier said, pained. The throbbing in his head was almost as intense as when he got wiped.

“I’m telling you––“ Natalia said with renewed vigor, “because I can see the fragments of your soul laying beneath your feet. Hydra steps on them and covers them to keep you from realizing they’re there, waiting to be put back together, but you’re not irreparable, James.

“You’re not made of glass, nor were you a bad egg that finally cracked when you fell from that train sixty years ago. You were a good person, and  _Hydra_ broke you. Made you believe you were lost. What they haven’t told you is they can put you back together.

“But you have to want it, and you need to take it by force. Freedom isn’t a word in Hydra’s vocabulary. Surely you’ve realized this—”

“STOP!”

Natalia’s lips sealed instantly. The Soldier was sending her to hell with his eyes.

“Why are you telling me this,  _really_?” He reiterated. Slow. “I won’t ask again.”

His whole body was shaking with anger, and something else. He felt overstimulated. Like the words Natalia said had sent his brain into overdrive.

Over…drive?

The Soldier realized this was just like coming out of the machine.

The not being able to remember a thing, but his body’s instincts flaring to life, as if trying to do the work for him.

His handler had said this word to him before. Not his current handler, but a different one. From long ago. It was clear as day now.

“James?”

Natalia was beside him, slowly trying to touch his arm in comfort.

He shoved her away, retreated to the window, and that’s when he felt it. The moisture on his face. He could taste the wet saltiness as it seeped into his mouth from the corner of his lips, and the rest resumed its travel down his chin.

He caught his reflection in the glass. His disheveled state. Long hair unruly, eyes sunken in, and face pale. Was he even alive?

Natalia was behind him; she put her hand on his shoulder. “I expected this would hurt.” Her voice was low. “I hoped it would be like a peeling off a bandaid, and that you’d bounce back, like you always do. You’ll need to stay strong. Fight harder than ever, because I may not always be around to break you out of Hydra’s spell.”

The Soldier still didn’t speak; he was frozen. Then, as if the wheels in his head had restarted—creating a chain reaction of turning gears throughout his body—he spun on his heels, and faced Natalia.

He almost didn’t notice that she’d cupped his cheek in her cold hand.

“I can’t say why,” she told him, reading the question on his face. “I want to, I do, but I can’t right now. One day you’ll understand.”

Natalia’s skin was the same cool temperature as his, but despite the lack of heat from either of them, the Soldier realized how much he’d longed for this: human contact. The pads of Natalia’s fingers were reassuring on his skin. They reminded him he was tangible—not really a ghost like Hydra had wanted so many to believe, including him.

“You mustn’t forget you’re a real person,” Natalia said suddenly, reading his mind. “I can help you.”

'  
`

The night gave way to the songs of crickets and the distant calls of owls.

Natalia and the Soldier abandoned the cold food left on the stove, traced each other’s skin—discovered each other’s scars, and relearned their own.

There was nothing violent or impersonal in the act, and for once the Soldier didn’t feel like he was doing anything he shouldn’t.

The peace he’d gotten from Natalia’s wandering hands was a momentary reprieve from the reality of the abrasive words she’d launched at him earlier. This was her way of apologizing for that, and he didn’t want to be upset with her.

He was only upset with himself.

That there was still self-loathing clawing underneath his skin, wanting to tear it’s way into the world and wreak havoc.

Humanity isn’t a construct of the mind, Natalia told him. It’s a living thing—has skin that breathes and sores, and every once in a while, something hides inside the pores and burrows itself a home. Something impure. A parasite of our own making that feeds off evil and breeds false narratives.

Her touch was like a soothing balm for his soul. An ointment meant to purify him of ill thoughts, and to subvert the remainder of Hydra’s programming. To purge it.

He’d shed the clothes on his upper body to receive this miraculous remedy, but he wished he could have shed his flesh instead.

Natalia stayed dressed. This wasn’t about her.

It was for him—so he could feel solid.

He inched closer and pressed their knees together. They sat across from each other on the floor, with legs crossed. The room was black; their silhouettes silver from the moon’s glow.

He could see puffs of breath escaping Natalia’s mouth. Little clouds of carbon dioxide mingled with oxygen, that he wanted to steal for himself.

Natalia, ever so observant, took notice of the way he stared at her mouth. Measured the distance between their lips.

The Soldier, afraid that they would no longer on the same page if they drifted closer, brought back his shoulders, and moved away.

“I’m not going to do anything you don’t want me to,” she said, ceasing all movement of her hand on his scarred shoulder.

The Soldier remained tense.

“You’re in control here.” The sincerity was visible in her clear eyes. She was a safety net: there to catch him if he started to fall.

Then the Soldier gave a short nod, and leaned into her touch again.

They stayed like this for hours until finally the gurgling of their stomachs reminded them of the food in the kitchen, and they ate, scampered to the bedroom, and slept, entangled in each other’s arms.

When the morning broke, and the air turned warm, the Soldier awoke to an empty bed.

On the pillow where Natalia had rested, sat a torn corner of a poster from the wall. On the front was a grassy patch filled with pink flowers from a much larger picture. On the back was Natalia’s small, scratchy writing.

'  
`

_Don’t be alarmed. I am safe, but I must ask for your understanding. Before you panic, please read the whole letter._

_I have contacted S.H.I.E.L.D. They know about Hydra’s plan, and it won’t be long before they go looking for you. They are not the enemy._

_Hydra is, and they won’t won’t help you. They’ll try their hardest to keep you, and you can’t let them. Leave. Hide. When you are ready someone will come for you._

 

_As for me, you’re probably wondering where I’ve gone so suddenly, and without preamble._

_I’ve decided to turn a new leaf. No, it’s not a conclusion I arrived at lightly. It took years of convincing myself that it was worth the danger before I could find it in me to take the final step. I saw the light during our mission at the Fridge, when I went looking for my locked files—tried to find something human worth latching onto because all I’ve ever known is hurt and abandonment. I wasn’t able to find anything of value on me, and in a moment of anger, went digging for information on_ you _. That’s when I discovered your heroic past._

_Anger. Jealousy. Disappointment. Desire for retribution—to be avenged. I don’t know which was stronger, but all of these seemed to awaken in me at once._

 

 _My head was a maze of questions without answers, but one stood above the rest._   _Would I be a good person now, if the Red Room hadn’t taken me all those years ago? Then a question that was a bit harder to swallow: Had I_  ever  _been good?_

 _When your parents don’t want you, and none of the kids your age seem to want to have anything to do with you, you start to think there’s something rotten inside. People turn their backs on what they don’t understand. They’re really just afraid to catch whatever it is they’ve convinced themselves is afflicting you, but you have to remember the problem isn’t you, it’s_ them _. They’re the ones who are confused._

_I was close to losing it two days ago, you know. To throwing away all caution and embracing the sleeping hell-beast inside of me. In the seven minutes I had to download the USB data and reach the ninth floor, I’d concocted maybe six different scenarios of how I might subdue you, put a bullet in your head, and then break away from Hydra’s restraints for good. I even considered letting myself plummet from the tower to my death._

_One look at you on the ninth floor—the ease with which you murdered those agents, and I realized I was going about it wrong._

_Look at us. Two completely different people from different times who’ve somehow managed to find themselves in the same place. Two monsters far from home._

_If you could start off being so good—so valiant and just—and still turn into this…_ thing _, then that has to mean our choices, and the choices made for us, are not immutable. That we can still forge our own destinies._

_That I can wipe the red from my ledger._

_That you can be James Barnes again. A hero._

 

_But you have to want it._

 

_Gotta want to stop being a monster Hydra created, and start wanting to be a man again._

_I stand by what I said last night. You deserve more._

_We all deserve at least one more chance to be good—to redeem ourselves not only in the eyes of the world, but our own— and really that’s all we get._

_I hope you’ll take this chance on yourself, because if you don’t, you’ll come to regret it one day. Just like I almost did._

 

-N

'  
`

The Soldier dropped the letter and left the bedroom, an automaton’s despondency to his gait.

There was blood splattered on the crisp, white walls—handprints and boot prints, in patterns marking the denouement of a struggle that never was.

Natalia had left these clues here for Hydra to find.

He followed them out the door, where more drops marked a trail in the fresh snow, leading deeper into the woods until tire tracks took their place and disappeared into the thicket. Natalia’s bike was still parked by the cabin, as was his.

The Soldier followed the trail, like breadcrumbs Natalia meant for him to chase. When he reached the point where her widely spaced footsteps had gone, he found Natalia’s Glock half buried in the snow. The magazine was empty.

He looked around, spotted the copper plated lead bullets lodged inside the trees and on the ground.

How had he slept through all this?

Then he remembered the eggs from last night, and the Soldier felt his insides churn.

A chopper appeared overhead, its spinning rotor blade cutting through the silence of the forest and pushing down a strong wind toward the earth. The Soldier’s hair whipped around him as the craft descended and landed on the padded ground.

Six agents quickly emerged from within and ran towards him, one holding a specially made taser meant to subdue him, three aiming large guns at his head, and the last pair holding a familiar set of restraints each.

“Put the weapon down, Soldier.” His handler commanded, his voice thundering behind the suited men. They parted to let him through.

The Soldier’s fingers twitched around the gun, but he didn’t let go.

Then the agent with the taser shot his cartridge and the Soldier crumpled to the floor in pain. His metal arm crackled and popped with the burst of electricity, and became disengaged.

The Soldier stared up at the approaching man, eyes hard. His jaw became tight as his teeth bit through the crippling pain.

“It seems we underestimated Miss Romanov,” the handler said to himself, looking the Soldier over with distaste. “It’s you I excepted this sort of disobedience from. Perhaps my discipline was too light. From the moment I saw you, I should have recognized the pathetic state your previous handler had left you in. I should have been more severe with you.”

The Soldier’s brows knitted.

He hadn’t done anything. He was as much a victim of circumstance in this as anyone. It was Natalia who had fled. Who had sided with S.H.I.E.L.D.

Although, a part of him wishes it hadn’t been. He should have gone after her.

“We’re aborting the mission and taking you back in. Pierce has been informed of what’s happened, and I’ve been given orders to put you back on ice. No exceptions.”

The Soldier closed his eyes. He tried to open his fist, but it was no use. The taser had completely immobilized him.

“Sir,” said one of the agents, snatching the handler’s attention.

“WHAT?”

“There’s blood, sir. It appears there was a struggle.”

The handler gave the Soldier a contemplative look before going over to where the agent had indicated.

They whispered amongst themselves, turning back every so often to assess the Soldier’s condition— to make sure he wouldn’t break free.

After a few minutes of going in and out of the safe house, the handler came back to his side and nodded at the agent who had tased him. The man eased off, and one of the agents with the restraints came forward and tied the Soldier’s arms behind him, the other coming to help him up.

The Soldier wanted to hit him with his shoulder, knock the man down, but the guns were still on him.

“Looks like we’ve misread the situation,” the handler said, with a grunt.

“Seems Romanov planned her escape alone.” He lifted Natalia’s letter so the Soldier could see. “We found this inside.”

The Soldier flinched.

He should have destroyed it.

“No matter. You have been compromised, and we can’t afford to leave you as you are. Not when it appears you remember more than you ought to.”

He was going to be wiped, the Soldier realized suddenly—as if the scales had finally measured out and it was revealed his punishment far outweighed his insubordination. For the first time in however long, the Soldier was afraid to be put back on the machine.

The agent behind him shoved him forward, and the Soldier looked around again, urgently surveying his surroundings. Everybody was on guard—keeping a close watch on him for any sudden or dangerous movements.

Three guns. One taser. Two men restraining him.

He ran through all the possible scenarios in his head—taking down the men holding him first, then the man with the taser—but by then he would have already been shot down by the agents with the guns. If he tried taking them out first, then he’d be tased. No matter who he targeted, there would always be someone ready to bring him to his knees.

A sense of doom fell on his shoulders as he realized there was no possible escape.

'  
`

After all he remembered, all the progress he made with Natalia—his wanting to  _live_ — he was still Hydra’s prisoner.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is the last chapter before we move into CA:TWS territory. 
> 
> Chapter 8 will reintroduce Steve, and he and Bucky will come face to face.  
> I'm planning for it to have a very angsty roller-coaster vibe, but with a "light at the end of the tunnel" note.
> 
> Overall, I foresee the story having 4-5 more chapters. 
> 
> Lastly, I don't know if you were able to tell, but I actually took my editing and revising somewhat seriously this chapter  
> (the downside of not having a beta). There were things I wish I'd done differently last chapter. Oh well. Maybe one day I'll go back and change them.


	8. Eyelet

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hydra gets taken down and the Winter Soldier remembers.

 

**-2014-**

 

 The Soldier followed the cloaked man to the apartment complex. He knew it wasn’t the man’s residence because he’d seen the target break into it himself, through the scope of his rifle, and not once had he stepped in front of the window. His handler had told him not to underestimate this man, and so far he’d been right in advising him so. He’d taken every precaution not to be seen.

The Soldier calculated that he only had one shot to hit the target before his location was given away, and he wasn't going to waste it without being sure it hit his mark.

So he waited. An hour passed before there was finally movement in the apartment. A light came on and then was promptly turned off, and another figure emerged from the shadows––someone he hadn’t counted on being a factor.

Knowing to turn the situation on its head, he concocted a plan to locate the target using the man's movement as a compass. Sure enough, when the younger man’s lips started to move, the downward tilt of his face and the angle of his gaze informed the Soldier that the target was seated. He only needed to determine the distance between them.

After another two minutes, the younger intruder’s eyes went up and were fixed there, and then the soft edge of a second shadow appeared in the Soldier’s line of sight.

_Got you_.

The Soldier inched his weapon two degrees to the left and pulled the trigger, blasting a hole in the wall. 

The younger man turned his torso and shielded his face with his arms before turning to look outside and spotting the Soldier. 

The Soldier dropped his weapon and ran. 

He used the rooftops to get away and knew—somehow—that the stranger was on his tail. The Soldier didn’t let his guard down. As the world was quickly filling with other powered people, he couldn’t discount the possibility that this man might catch up to him. 

He made it to the last of the closely huddled buildings before he realized he was going to have to jump down.

Then there was a crash behind him. 

The atmosphere changed suddenly— as though something had disturbed the air. 

He turned instinctively and caught a flying object with his metal hand: a silver shield painted red and blue.

Then he looked at the stranger’s bewildered face and saw for the first time the edge of the man's chiseled jaw and sculpted facial structure. His dark blue eyes stirred something in him: a foreign—possessive— feeling that this man might belong to him in some capacity. Perhaps, to his deeply buried and inaccessible memories.

He threw the shield back without waiting to see it make contact, and jumped off the roof, disappearing through an alley back the way he came. 

 

The Soldier got as far as five streets when he slowed to a stop, heart thrumming in his chest. Not from exertion, or even from fear of almost having been caught. He felt exhilarated. Like he was coming back to life and electricity ran through his veins.

He placed a gloved hand over his chest and felt the stuttering organ on his palm.

That man…there was something about him that he hadn’t been able to pick up on just by looking in at the apartment, the Soldier thought. He had seemed entirely unremarkable then. Ordinary. But on the roof, when he was face to face with the too-American blond, he’d felt there was an uncanny likeness in his features to a man the Soldier knew. A man whose face he'd never clearly seen. 

A man from his nightmares. 

When he closed his eyes at night and plunged into the realm in which the man existed, darkness would pool beneath his feet, and the Soldier would fall away, absorbed by that sempiternal force that plagued his dreams, only to later awaken in a cold sheen of sweat. 

For a while, the dreams stopped coming, but just a few nights ago they’d returned.

This had to be a sign, he thought. He had to have known this man in his past life. Why else would the dreams have returned, and his body had such a convulsive reaction to seeing him? It was like it was trying its hardest to expel the intruder—to protect him from something. But from what? Whom? 

 

The receiver in his ear came to life, and the Soldier froze.

“What is your position, Soldat?” said his handler.

The Soldier steeled himself and gave the older man his coordinates. 

The handler grunted. “Report to base,” he said. “Now.”

The command was clear. The Soldier gathered his bearings and turned on his heel, going back a couple of alleys and heading northwest, towards Hydra’s underground New York base.

_No matter what_ , he thought, _I cannot speak a word about the man or what has happened. They will wipe me for it._

 '  
`

When he returned to Hydra’s clutches, the Soldier was locked away.

He didn’t know what he’d done, if anything, to make his handler distrust him so, but there he was, on his bed in the bare, eight-by-eight cell, and the door was locked. Sometimes, they’d station upwards of five men outside his door, depending on his handler’s mood, and he always seemed to be in a bad one. Tonight he’d decided to assign four guards to watch over him in his prison. It made no difference to the Soldier. 

He stared at the ceiling, recounting the mission. 

The target.

The blast.

The blond man.

Those blue eyes.

_No—think of the mission._

Bewildered, blue eyes.

_Dammit_.

He sat up, threw his legs over the side of the bed, and hunched over to hold his head in his hands. A shuddering, tired gasp snuck past his lips.

Why couldn’t he just keep his focus? Why couldn’t the anger and self-doubt that blinded him leave him? He didn’t want to feel this insecurity—didn’t want to feel _anything_. Not resentment for Hydra, nor enmity for S.H.I.E.L.D, or never-ending frustration at himself.

He no longer wanted to fear.

The cloaked man he’d followed today. The blond _hero_ who’d chased after him. The possibility of recovering his memories. What would he find, he thought. What if he discovered a past far worse than what he’s imagined? Worse than what he’s lived?

What if, after everything, he learned he’d once known joy and that cloying sentiment called _love_? 

What would he do with that Intel, after all the terror he’s caused? 

Who would forgive him, when he couldn’t even feel sorry for himself? He didn’t deserve it. 

With that thought circling his head like a vulture, he forced himself to sleep.

 '  
`

The next time the Soldier saw the blond man, he was on a mission to annihilate him. He'd blasted the man over the bridge and through a moving bus and then was promptly shot at by one of the man’s accomplices: a red-haired woman, who very nearly shot out one of his eyes.

The woman was not enhanced, he saw it in the way she moved and the stunted force with which she delivered blows, but she was deadly accurate and nimble, and that was an advantage all her own. 

She managed to land a hit on him once, something he’s heard his handler tell the recruits that only a handful of people have achieved throughout the decades—so it shouldn't have come as a surprise when she outwitted him a second time. 

He believed she’d hidden behind a van; he heard her panicked voice calling for backup, so he rolled a small explosive toward the sound only to be assaulted by the woman from behind, who took advantage of his confusion to wrap her thighs around his torso and pull a cord tight around his neck.

He tried to throw her off; the cord pressed against his trachea, blocking the airflow to his lungs, but the woman didn't use the strength he knew she had reserved for this opportune moment. She leaned into his ear, puffs of ragged breath hitting his flushed skin. “ _I told you to run_ ,” she said, and her voice hitched on the last word.

Adrenaline rushed through the Soldier, and he backed the redhead into the hard surface of a van, effectively knocking the wind out of her. She lost her grip on him, and the Soldier turned on her, eyes ablaze as she gasped for air.

Metallic fingers wrapped around the blade sheathed on his thigh as the other reached for the woman’s throat. When he was about to finish her off, a hefty weight rammed into his side and threw him off the redhead. 

The Soldier rolled on the pavement briefly and maneuvered his weight on one knee. The blond man—the Captain—looked back at him only a foot away.

The Soldier sneered beneath his mask as the Captain reached for the shield on his back, but the Soldier was quicker and blocked the assault with his arm. The _clang_ of metal against metal rang with a treble-like vibration across the pulverized street. 

They got to their feet. Circled each other. Assessed each other’s stance. Searched for an opening. When one couldn’t be found, the Soldier grew impatient and attacked head-on. His handler would be angry when he found out he’d acted recklessly, but he didn’t care. Not when his _mission_ was standing in front of him.

They grappled for what seemed like an eternity. They were too evenly matched—the Super Soldiers. The blond man got in a few headlocks and even a round-house kick to the sternum, but the Soldier reciprocated with a couple of suplexes and a blade through the shoulder. They were a tangled mass of strong limbs, unwavering in their intent to cause pain, to subdue and destroy. Blood from his own knife got onto the Soldier's hand, and then on the Captain's neck when he wrapped the metal fingers around the pale skin and shoved the other man against the side of a stationed vehicle.

“Urgh.”

The Soldier pressed harder against him, tried to strangle him. He licked his lips beneath the mask covering the lower half of his face and focused intently on the angry vein that bulged blue beneath his fingertips. 

Then his eyes flickered up, and it was like getting lost up in the midday sky. Like being out of breath and without ground to stand on. His grip faltered, and the Captain took advantage of the distraction to wind a leg behind the Soldier’s knee and shove him backward.

The Soldier fell on his back as the American hero inhaled a large gulp of oxygen and his pink complexion returned to its natural pallor.

The Soldier got to his feet and charged, but the Captain had grabbed his shield when he wasn't looking, and when he got within proximity, used it to whack the Soldier across the face. 

His head turned with the impact; the mask that had kept the Soldier’s identity concealed dropped to the floor.

A stale quiet permeated the street. It was then that the Soldier noticed they were alone. Everyone had either run for safety or had retreated, but he didn’t doubt that S.H.I.E.L.D backup was on its way. 

The Soldier glared at the Captain, ready to strike, but he saw the man's relaxed posture—arms at his side, feet light on the ground, and warning signals flashed behind the Soldier's eyes. 

The Captain was open. _Wide open_.

But _why_?

“Bucky?”

A shiver rolled down his spine.

“Buck,” the man repeated, lips pressed with severity the Soldier hadn’t yet observed from him, but those blue eyes remained soft as they looked right at him, not through him like the Soldier was accustomed to. 

He withdrew into himself, his mind started to shrivel, and then he realized where he was. Who the man was. And why he’d been sent on the mission in the first place.

"Who the hell is Bucky?" he said and stalked towards the Captain once more.

The man’s brows furrowed, but he, too, seemed to realize where they were and that the Soldier was not going to wave a white flag just yet.

Before either of them could move toward each other, a voice in the Soldier’s ear-piece alerted him to the incoming S.H.I.E.L.D units.

Seconds later, sirens wailed from the end of the street, and a chopper roared overhead and scattered the debris around their feet.

The Soldier glanced once at his enemy—his disheveled and disoriented appearance—and momentarily held eye contact with him. Then he chucked an explosive at the man and disappeared under the cover of smoke.

He weaved through a couple of streets before jumping onto a roof ladder and making his way up the side of a building to watch the spectacle unfurl at a distance. He couldn’t see the Captain behind the chopper on the carved-up-street, but the many S.H.I.E.L.D agents were a striking black against the dull grey of the pavement, and he knew he couldn’t go back down there.

 '  
`

The Soldier did not return to Hydra. 

Having deposited his gear at a public locker, the Soldier mounted his bike and drove away, toward Brooklyn.

The sun was setting, and the traffic bustled, but the inexplicable urge to cross to the other side of the bridge swelled within him. He was like a moth following the light of the rising moon.

The Soldier had questions, and his homing device was showing him the answers were there. All he had to do was cross.

When he reached Brooklyn Heights, it was nighttime. Something about the docks and how they overlooked the glistening East River tickled a memory, but the perfectly smoothed roads and the terra-colored town-houses were alien to him. Nothing definitive ignited the possibility that he might have come here before, much less have had any history with the place. Still, he decided to ride on.

As if propelled by nature’s force, he turned on Columbia Place, a narrow street bookended on one side by a quaint deli. A canopy of shadowed emerald trees covered the sky as he went farther in, and his eyes raked the facades of the narrowly packed brick buildings. 

When the Soldier saw the faint green door on the front of a pale beige complex, the bike came to a halt.

The Soldier’s eyes were transfixed beyond the abyss of the window on the slab of wood. He very nearly imagined it coming aglow from the dim light of a candle, or a kerosene lamp, though why he thought this he did not know.

He imagined coming here late at night, like he was now, and unlocking the door. Turning the knob, stepping inside, kicking his shoes off. He imagined being greeted by someone of short stature and a fair but unrecognizable face and being enveloped by their warmth. This phantom dream, too, he couldn't conceive a reason for.

The Soldier wanted to dismount and see for himself what waited inside the place, but light on the second floor came on, and a woman's silhouette moved across the window, shattering his illusions.

The Soldier’s shoulders sagged with inexplicable regret.

Whatever he’d imagined, it hadn’t been this. 

The person he’d imagined inside waiting for him… had been a man. 

Of _this_ , he was entirely sure.

 '  
`  

Pierce’s house was three hours outside of New York City.

The Soldier waited until the housemaid had gone before entering through the open windows and taking a seat on one of the counter stools. He waited. This was the extent to which his presence could be admitted. 

It was ten minutes later when an older man stepped into the darkness and the refrigerator light cast shadows on the wall, among which was the Soldier’s. 

With a glass of juice in hand, Pierce turned around and froze, finally noticing the visitor. 

Pierce hesitated only momentarily before he pulled himself together and cleared his throat. “I have a new mission for you.”

The Soldier was still, and the inquisitive voice in his head that wanted answers crashed against the throat-clogging inertia of silence. _Who was the man on the roof? Why do I feel like I know him?_ He couldn’t bring himself to ask. Not now.

Instead, he listened intently to the details of his new mission.

Apparently, the blond man he’d fought was working alongside S.H.I.E.L.D to bring Hydra down, and the only way they could accomplish that was to thwart Pierce’s secret project—a project whose details the Soldier was not privy to. The mystery man and his people planned to sneak aboard some helicarriers, and it was up to the Soldier to stop them.

“When the helicarriers go up tomorrow, so will you.”

The Soldier didn’t have to nod his confirmation, Pierce very well knew he’d do anything he asked him to. 

With this settled, Pierce raised his glass in a shallow salute and went back into his room.

“Lock the windows on your way out,” Pierce said before closing the door, and then he muttered, “I’ve told Renata hundreds of times…”

 '  
`  

Events unfolded in the way Pierce had explained they would. The man from the roof exposed Hydra’s infiltration of S.H.I.E.L.D to the public, which was problematic enough on its own without him going and following through with the predicted course of action, which was to come aboard the helicarriers to deactivate them.

The Soldier was a little annoyed, and it wasn’t that he had to clean up another mess for Hydra that prickled his skull. It was something else.

That man had come aboard the aircraft knowing fully well the Soldier would be there, ready to intercept him by any means necessary. Had it even occurred to him what would happen on the off-chance that he succeeded? Would he willingly go down like a captain with his ship?

The thought made the Soldier want to lock the man away somewhere…and that it was so he wouldn’t cause harm to himself made the Soldier’s viscera do somersaults. 

Why should he care?

Why had his every waking moment since the night on the roof been breached by thoughts of this stranger? This threat. Enemy. Invader.

His handler should have authorized a wipe weeks ago. The stress of the job was finally getting to him. He thought he’d learned to outpace it, but it was moot. Hydra may have attached a metal prosthetic to his body, but he was still a man, and his insides were soft. 

"The Captain has land––" came the muffled alert from his earpiece. Then there was static.

The Soldier didn’t have to run a marathon in his head to come to the realization that the man—the _Captain_ —had come aboard the helicarrier. Whether the other two aircrafts had been targeted already was not the Soldier’s concern. Right now, his mission was one: eliminate the enemy threat. 

The Soldier was hardly concealed when the man came inside the craft and cracked open the main circuit board, but the invader paid him no attention.

A vein on the Soldier’s temple popped as he took aim with his pistol and shot the man right through the stomach. 

The man stumbled backward and fell on his knees, turning slightly so that his back rested against the metallic casing of the central system.

The Soldier lowered his weapon, stalked in the man’s direction, and wound up a flight of stairs so that he and the man could meet face to face. 

The man tried to stand, but the Soldier shot him again in the shoulder, and he crumpled with a gasp. 

The ease with which he had rendered his opponent immobile was startling. He’d never once felt frightened for one of his targets before, but this time was different. The Soldier burned with anxiety at not knowing why.

The Captain got on his feet, and the Soldier shot him again. This time, the bullet went through his abdomen, and the man stumbled but didn't collapse. 

_Why aren’t you giving up_? The Soldier thought.

“Bucky,” came the man’s breathless voice. “You don’t have to do this.”

The Soldier shot at him again and missed.

Didn’t the man understand that he _did_? That he’d have no choice if Hydra told him to put a bullet in his own head? His compliance had been tested and his loyalty proven strong. 

The Soldier scoffed. 

Did this man really think he would be able to undo all those years of conditioning?

That he’d alone be able to achieve what the Soldier could not?

His hubris was reprehensible. Sickening, even.

The Soldier tossed his weapon to the side, letting it fall off the bridge ledge on which the two men were suspended. 

The Captain pulled his shoulders back, readying himself for the Soldier’s iron fist.

They gravitated towards each other like magnets to their opposite charge. The Soldier struck first, his metal hand clanging against the Soldier’s shield. The Captain pushed back, managing to create a distance between the two, long enough for him to regain his footing. 

The Soldier wouldn’t see past the red and blue of the Soldier’s shield. Couldn’t make out the harsh edges of the Soldier’s form against the blur around them. The Soldier could not see, and it cost him.

He swung against air, and an elbow hit his sternum, then his back, and he was kicked off the bridge.

His body hit the platform below, and he rolled down onto another. By the time he was on his feet, his metal arm whirring as he gave it a swivel, the Captain had made it back to the central system and meddled with the circuit boards.

The helicarrier shook violently, and he stumbled backward without taking his eyes off his prey, who was breathless and hurting from his wounds. The Soldier felt anger like he’d never felt before. He caught the glint of his discarded pistol and lunged for it. Once in his grasp, he aimed the barrel at the blond man and pulled the trigger. He missed and shot again. The bullet grazed the man’s arm. He pulled the trigger once more, and the gun clicked with the vacancy of an abused magazine. 

The Soldier cursed under his breath and looked up in time to see the small upwards tug of the Captain’s lips. Then it was gone. 

The Soldier’s stomach dropped with another explosion from somewhere on the helicarrier, and the platform above his head shook loose, falling over him and pinning him down. 

He let out a pained groan, the heavy metal digging into his flesh and cutting off the blood circulation in his legs.

He struggled to free himself, but with his metal arm trapped beneath him, he just didn’t have the mobility or strength. He felt impotent, and flashes of all the times he’d felt helpless and at the mercy of his captors flickered behind his lids: the electricity of the chair, the iciness of his shackles, and the burning imprisonment of his mind. A cycle of torture he couldn’t break away from.

It was minutes later when he felt the pressure over him ease off. Once he could move his legs again, he crawled out of his entrapment, and his mortification ended. 

The Captain did not make a move for him, and the Soldier was no longer surprised by the man’s unpredictability. 

The Soldier would have even let the Captain go, the damage was already done in any case, and he couldn’t bring himself to waste one more iota of rage over someone so oblivious, but that was not his decision to make. He’d been given a mission, and he was bound by the imperative to complete it. 

“I don’t want to fight you,” the man said.

_Too bad._

The Soldier bared his teeth and lunged for him. The Captain tried to evade him but couldn’t escape the brunt of a punch to his jaw. He was too weakened to move at his full capacity.

_This should be quick work._

The Captain stumbled away, reaching for his cowl and unlatching it. 

_Idiot,_ the Soldier thought, finding it difficult to take a single step forward until he assessed what it was the Captain planned.

The mask fell away, and the Soldier’s breath hitched.

“Your name is James Buchanan Barnes,” the man said, softly. He took a tentative step forward. “You’re my friend.”

Friend. As if anyone could care for the Soldier, much less offer him their friendship. 

This was a trick. Another one of S.H.I.E.L.D’s lies. 

“Liar!” he growled, throwing his weight on the man and knocking them over the edge of the platform. 

They were disentangled as they fell down two levels. The impact was nowhere near deadly, but it exacerbated the wounds that had been inflicted on both men. It took them a full minute before either could get back on his feet and when they finally stood, the helicarrier rattled with a force that knocked them back down.

“Bucky,” the Captain said again, breathless. “You have to remember me.”

The Soldier tried to unplug himself from the conscious world, concentrating solely on gaining the upper hand. The less useless information he was exposed to, the less likely he'd be to muddle up the operation.

Pierce, Hydra, and the _world_ depended on it.

The Soldier knew very well he wasn't a good man. He was incapable of giving or receiving love, but at the very least he had a purpose for being, and it was a great purpose. He’d been chosen as the world’s protector. The fist that would guarantee peace. 

He was to do humanity a favor, and all that he asked for in return was to be allowed a chance at peace of his own. To be retired, locked away, suspended in time. 

To forget and be forgotten.

To be no more.

“I’m not going to fight you,” the Captain said, reeling back the Soldier’s attention like a fish on a line. 

The Captain was pinned below him. His own fist was raised and poised to strike the blond man, and he hadn’t even noticed. It was like his body knew what steps to take, what moves to make, without even consulting him. He didn’t even have to think anymore. 

This was the result of years of rinsing and repeating routines.

And right now, his instincts were urging him to finish the job.

“You’re my mission.”

The Soldier pummeled the Captain’s face with his fist, one unrelenting hit after the other until the chiseled jaw and cheekbones were battered, and the capillaries beneath the fair skin had ruptured.

The man did not fight back, only took the blows like they were nothing, like he couldn’t feel the pain, and the Soldier wondered if that was indeed the case. Had he struck the man so hard he could no longer feel or had the Captain given up?

“You gotta finish it, Buck,” the Soldier said suddenly, frail and weathered. 

The Soldier’s fist paused over his head again. 

_Why? Why can’t I do it?_

“Whatever happens, I’m with you…’til the end of the line.”

What happened next was unexpected. The surface beneath the Captain plummeted and down he fell with the broken pieces of metal that used to be helicarrier.

The Soldier could only watch from above, disoriented, as the man broke through the surface of the lake and sunk into its depths. 

The picture wasn’t right. Not quite how he remembered it. 

There should have been more white…it should have been colder. Where did the train go? 

Why had the Captain fallen, and not him? It was supposed to be him. The Soldier was the one meant to fall.

No. 

Not the Soldier. Someone else.

Someone clean and honest. Someone without innocent blood on his hands.

_There’s no such thing,_ a voice in his head spat. _A soldier without the blood of the innocent on his hands? What about the war? Did civilians not die trying to flee from American bombs and bullets? You might not have meant for them to get hurt, but don’t ever pretend your conscience was clean._

The Soldier tried to clear his mind.

That wasn’t exactly right. He did faintly recall the sounds of dropping bombs and screaming civilians, but he also remembered pure, unadulterated laughter.

He had saved people, too. 

Women and children who’d been caught in the crossfire. Elderly people. Pets. Farm animals. Even a young man’s burning home.

_...and someone who almost fell from a train,_ a new voice reminded him. _A long time ago…_

There had been anguish. Despair. All those feelings that surged at the moment of having to make such a cruel decision. It hadn’t been easy. The person he saved had meant a lot to him—deep down, he understood they still did. And he knew the sacrifice had hurt that person as well, but he didn’t regret it. It was the best thing—the only thing— he could’ve done at the time. 

And he knew that man would have done the same for him.

_”What we have––this friendship––it’s ‘til the end of the line.”_

“Goddamit,” the Soldier hissed, getting up on his shaky legs, He took a deep breath and pushed himself off the craft, diving after the man he was supposed to let drown.

There was no turning back once he was in the air.

After finding the Captain in the water and pulling him to the surface, the Soldier dropped his unconscious body on the shore, a little out of the way of the mainland, far from the public eye. 

He looked down at him impatiently, waiting for the man to allow air back into his lungs. But he didn’t. Couldn’t.

The Soldier’s hands trembled. He passed it off as being from the cold, but that couldn’t explain the rapid thrumming of his heart. He’d never done this before.

“Damn,” he muttered and fell on his knees beside the body to start the chest compressions. He kept count in his head, but when it became clear his efforts weren’t enough, his eyes drifted along the man’s neck, up his chin, and then to his mouth.

Slowly, he leaned closer, eyes not leaving the pink flesh of the man’s busted lips. 

He tilted the man’s head back.

And started breathing into the man’s lungs. 

The man was cold. He didn’t just need oxygen, he required warmth. 

_One thing at a time._

He tore his mouth away to do more compressions. He carried on like this, alternating between working the man’s mouth and compressing his chest until finally, the excess water in his lungs spurted from his lips. 

The Soldier leaned back on his haunches, relieved. 

The Captain’s eyes remained closed, and he looked to be on the verge of passing out again, but at least he was breathing. 

It suddenly dawned on him that the man needed medical attention, but he couldn’t be the one to bring him to a hospital. 

He looked around at their bleak surroundings, looking for something to create a flare with—anything—but there was nothing, and whatever might have helped was either too soaked to be useful or completely destroyed.

His eyes turned to the sky, and there, at a distance, he saw a couple of news choppers. At least it was something to work with; he knew they’d make their way to this side of the lake eventually and find the suited hero on the shoreline. 

The Soldier looked down at his mission—his Captain. 

His.

It was clear as day. 

The Soldier didn’t know himself or his past—didn’t even know what they called the Captain—but it was apparent there was something there, something buried between them. The man had given the Soldier a name. Several, in fact: James Buchanan Barnes. But the one that had tugged at the rusted chords inside his shriveled heart had been Bucky.

_Bucky._

He wanted to remember who this Bucky was. Why he meant so much to a man he had been commanded to kill. A man who had refused to fight him, who had refused to even defend himself from him.

The Captain let out a quiet groan, and his head fell to the side, away from the Soldier. He was slowly starting to rouse, and the Soldier knew he needed to leave before that happened.   
He stood and regarded the man’s form one last time before he disappeared through a cover of trees.

He was _going_ to remember, he promised the stranger. 

Because he had a feeling that this man, who had looked into his eyes and called him a friend, was the only remaining link the Soldier had to his past. Whatever humanity might have been torn from him.

 

The Soldier may not have ever been a good person, but there was someone who knew him. And believed in him. 

Who instilled in him hope and desire.

And that was more than he’d ever had in his long, lonely life.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy Holidays to those who celebrate, and Seasons Greetings to all!  
> This is my belated gift to you.
> 
> Now that I'm done with school I'll be updating more regularly. I have a Stevebucky Lawyer AU in the works that I'm excited to bring to you all, but I won't start posting until this fic has been completed. There are three chapters more to go!


	9. Spinning Wheel

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A bit of a slower chapter. Bucky's feeling more like himself, and gets reacquainted with Steve.  
> Oh, and Maria Hill and FitzSimmons cameos!

**-Months Later-**

 

Bucky sat on the edge of the weathered brown sofa in the apartment he’d been staying at —a plum in one hand, and the television remote in the other. 

He’d been on the move since the fall of Hydra, investigating whether the organization had indeed disappeared or if it was still hiding in the shadows, like a persistent parasite. As far as he knew, Hydra had vanished into thin air. For months, he scoured the bases he knew existed and found no signs of activity anywhere. Only when he exhausted his leads did he flee the country. 

The news anchor’s Romanian was animated as he recounted the attack on the U.N. that had happened while Bucky was out in the marketplace that same morning. 

Bucky’s eyes were rapt, absorbing the destructive images that the authorities were now trying to blame _him_ for. 

“Officials have identified the perpetrator as none other than wanted Hydra agent, James Buchanan Barnes, who had been presumed dead…”

His flesh hand crushed the fruit in his palm.

It was only a matter of time before the international police came looking for him. He’d been careless these past few months, leaving bread crumbs all over Europe, and no doubt his face had been captured on security feeds in multiple countries. He needed to move. And fast.

He shut the television off and heard a small noise outside of the living room window. 

Bucky quickly slid into the bathroom and waited in the dark for the intruder to make his presence known. He pressed himself against the tiled wall, minding his metal arm, which had been giving him trouble for weeks. The part of his shoulder that connected to the prosthetic was sore and tender, and even the slightest motions aggravated the pain. He wasn’t in any condition to fight. 

Quietly, the window slid open, and a large, statuesque figure stepped into his apartment. The man was dressed in casual clothes, but Bucky recognized that form immediately, and that specific shade of blond hair. 

It was the Captain, Steve Rogers. 

His childhood friend.

He watched as Rogers walked into the kitchen area and picked up a journal from the small table. He opened it and pulled out a news clipping—Bucky was sure it was the recent Avengers article he’d inconspicuously torn from a magazine in the marketplace. He hadn’t had an opportunity to read it, but it had to do with politics—new regulations and restrictions for powered people.

The man looked over the creased paper for a while before the ex-soldier decided to step out into the light. 

Rogers turned around, surprised and guarded, but didn’t move for him—didn’t even reach for his shield. 

“Bucky,” he said, placing the paper down on the table. “I’ve been looking for you.”

Bucky didn’t say anything to that. He wanted to know why the man was here, if not to fight.

“You disappeared after saving me at the lake.”

_You’re welcome_ , Bucky wanted to say, but his eyes dropped to the pistol concealed under the man’s jacket, and his suspicions grew.

Rogers put his hands up. “I’m not here to fight, Buck. I want to help you. I’m sure you’ve seen what the news channels are saying.”

“I don’t need help. Not yours, not anybody’s.”

“Buck.” He insisted. “The two of us sticking together will yield better results than going it alone, and I know people who can help. People who would understand that…”

“There’s nothing to understand, Steve,” he said, regret clawing its way to his chest when he saw what the name—his slip of informality— did to Roger’s face. He became radiant.

“You know me?”

Bucky couldn’t get out of this one. He nodded, reluctant. “I saw the exhibit in New York.”

Suddenly, Rogers cracked a smile. “And you remember who you are?”

“ _Was_ ,” Bucky corrected him. “That man— that’s not who I am anymore.”

Why would he claim a past he didn’t have memories from? The only thing he needed was the name. Something to be called that wasn’t _Soldier_ or _Asset_. Something his. Something that felt right and Bucky, after trying many other names, was the only name that _did_ , and he couldn’t explain why.

Rogers’ shoulders slumped almost imperceptibly. “I don’t care. I haven’t given up on you. Let me help you. At least let me thank you for pulling me out of the water.”

Bucky sneered. “I don’t need your gratitude. I didn’t save you out of the goodness of my heart,” he explained. “I was curious, that’s all.”

“Regardless,” Rogers said, coming to stand in front of him.

Bucky didn’t recoil—didn’t want to show any discomfort or worse, fear. This was his terrain, he had to hold his ground.

Rogers put a hand on his shoulder, and Bucky felt the man’s body heat through the fabric of his vest. It was an admittedly welcome contrast to the frigid air in the room.

“If you come with me, you won’t have to keep hiding out here anymore. You could even come work with me, once you’ve been checked out—if that’s what you want.”

Bucky took the man’s wrist and pulled him off. His eyes searched the Captain’s—tried to fish out any treachery in those deep blues, but for all that the ex-Soldier had been trained to read his enemies, he could not breach the inner-thoughts of this man. 

Bucky didn’t have much experience trusting people, but surely this man’s naivety proved he could be swayed—could be manipulated at any given moment, if need be.

“Fine.” He conceded. “But I am no prisoner. I will leave when I want, and I am allowed to make demands.”

“Anything,” the Captain said, eager. “Buck, I promise you won’t regret it, but we have to go now. The authorities could be here any minute.”

Wordlessly, Bucky grabbed an empty backpack and started to gather his personal items: his journal, flash-drives of Hydra files he’d stolen—for research—and the little money he had kept hidden in a loose floorboard under the sofa. 

Rogers kept a close watch on him as he moved around the apartment, eyebrows raised when Bucky started to hide his knives under his clothes. He glanced anxiously at the door a few times as if expecting someone might come busting through any second.

As soon as he had gathered his things, the two made their way to the roof, where Bucky was astounded to find a small chopper ready for them. 

_There’s no way you came here in this,_ he thought. _I would have heard it._

As if reading his mind. Steve said, “It’s solar-powered—quieter than most models. Got me here yesterday evening, but I had to wait until morning before I could fly again.”

“So, Captain America is environmentally conscientious.”

Rogers laughed. “My PR manager likes to think so.”

Bucky shook his head. He didn’t understand this man. 

*

After leaving Romania, they flew to Italy. Something about the place had made Bucky feel paranoid and uncomfortable, and the glint in Roger’s eye, a shard of a memory he wasn’t sharing with him, made him feel it more. They left the country promptly and took a long flight back to the States, which wasn’t necessarily a great alternative, but at least he no longer felt that impending sensation of doom he’d experienced in Europe. 

Maria Hill greeted them at a secret base in New York that, as it so happens, had been left to Rogers in the wake of S.H.I.E.L.D and Hydra’s fall.

“Fury left me a base?”

“Technically, he left it to the Avengers, but yes,” Maria said, strutting down the halls like she owned them.

“Does Tony know?”

Maria shook her head. “We’ve been keeping our heads down until needed. You’re the first to know about this place. Though, when I imagined breaking the news, I never thought you’d be accompanied by a universally wanted fugitive. We have a lot to discuss before I can bring you up to speed on what we’re doing here.”

“And what about Bucky?”

Maria stopped walking and turned to face them. Bucky squared his shoulders, making his presence palpable. He wouldn’t allow them to speak about him as if he weren’t there—as if he didn’t have any agency.

“Up until recently, he was Hydra’s most feared and loyal hitman. We can’t just expect that he’ll cooperate—keep his tail between his legs. I’m recommending a complete Psych-Eval until it can be determined he is of...healthy mind.”

“And what happens in the meantime?” Bucky asked with a clenched jaw. 

Maria regarded him, cautious. “We’ll give him restricted clearance,” she said to Steve, and then turned to Bucky. “But you’ll have to remain with Captain Rogers at all times, and you will be monitored. Our agency doesn’t technically exist so it can’t report you or hold you against your will. Probably for the best anyway, since the Sokovia Accords are in full discussion. We wouldn’t want the notorious Winter Soldier to fall into the government’s lap, and in turn, the wrong hands.”

The Captain’s lips turned down at that last part, but he nodded to the woman, and she started walking again. 

Bucky was not happy being put on a leash—being walked like an animal behind its masters— and he knew it showed on his face, so he fell a few paces behind Rogers as they continued on their way to wherever it was Hill was taking them. He didn’t want Steve to see him like that. He wasn’t in a mood to entertain the man’s questions.

Eventually, they found themselves in front of a closed door in the residence wing of the compound—according to Hill, this was where agents and other personnel slept when they were away from home.

“For your privacy, I got you a double,” Hill said, and then whispered a few things to the Captain before going to tend to other matters.

Steve pushed the door open to reveal a quaint room with two beds and separate shelving. A small desk divided the space in half.

“Any preference?” 

Bucky hesitated only a beat, then walked in and started to deposit his weapons in the shelves of the right side of the room.

Steve smiled to himself at what seemed like a private joke.

With a scowl, Bucky plopped down on the firm mattress and started undoing the buttons of his vest. 

Steve followed suit and removed his weapons: pistol, knife, and utility belt. 

When they were stripped of all discomfort, they stared across the small room at each other from their beds. 

“Now will you talk to me?”

Bucky looked down at his hands—the two very different materials. Flesh and metal. Past and present.

_Get a grip, soldier._

“Alright, I’ll give you some space,” Steve said, laying down to rest his head on his pillow. He closed his eyes and placed his hands on his stomach, one over the other.

Bucky watched him—couldn’t tell if he was sincere, or if he was toying with him, using reverse psychology.

He hated it. Whenever his handlers had wanted something from him, they’d demand it—take it by force if they wanted to—but the Captain was always giving him a _choice_. 

He’d hoped for that kindness when he agreed to follow him here. He wouldn’t have given in so quickly if he didn’t think it would be given, but it was different wanting something and actually having it. 

_Space._

It was something he’d desired for so long, so much that when he was alone in Romania, he cherished every moment of it. Not having to answer to anyone. Doing whatever he pleased. People minding their own business, for once. Strangers treating him like just another regular _person_.

But when the Captain gave him space, it felt like being ignored. Like he wasn’t worth waiting on. Like he didn’t matter.

It infuriated him.

Bucky lunged forward and grabbed the man by the collar, lifting him off the bed. His eyes shook—unfocused—as he brought the man close to his face. 

The Captain’s eyes were wide as if he hadn’t imagined the ex-soldier’s anger and couldn’t believe what he was seeing.

When the man tried to calm him down, placed his hands on his arms, Bucky noticed his whole body was shaking. The man’s touch steadied him, brought him down from his high, dampened his rage. 

Bucky clenched the man’s shirt so hard that he strained the muscles in his arms and shoulders, and the tender parts burned with a renewed vigor.

He released the Captain and stumbled, his back hitting the door.

“Buck? What’s wrong?”

He held his injured shoulder and hissed from the pain.

“You’re hurt! When did this happen? Why didn’t you say anything?”

Bucky tried to scoot away from the Captain—attempted to escape the prying hands, and their desire to repair the damage both men knew could not be undone. The Captain was holding onto ancient sentimentality—was motivated by a religious need to solve all the problems persisting between them, including bridging the physical chasm that kept them, quite literally, at arm’s length. That resolve showed on his face as he reached for him.

“Stop,” Bucky said, and the Captain stilled. 

He looked at Bucky with consternation, worry on his stupid face, and his arms awkwardly hanging in mid-air.

“I just need to get my arm looked at. That’s all.”

When Steve looked unsure, Bucky tilted his head back against the door. “Please,” he said, his voice strained and weak.

The Captain said nothing.

“Please, Steve.”

*

Steve ran off to find Maria Hill, who took Bucky to the medical wing to get his arm checked out. A polite, young agent—Dr. Simmons—saw personally to his care, and asked that Steve wait outside her lab for the patient’s privacy and comfort.

Steve didn’t want to leave Bucky alone, but one glare from the woman was all it took for him to bow his head and do as he was told.

Dr. Simmons wasn’t a woman of superfluous words—she was precise and articulate, and her touch was gentle when she looked him over, which won her points with Bucky. She’d asked him to remove his shirt, and helped him when he couldn’t do it on his own. She always asked for permission before touching any part of his—flesh or metal.

“Does this hurt?” she asked, gently prodding at the juncture of his flesh and the prosthetic.

Bucky nodded, schooling his expression against the pain.

“It seems the weight of your prosthetic has caused strain to the muscle and tissue still active in your arm and shoulder. I suspect the precise mobility of the device was achieved neurally, which means that whoever implanted this thing managed to salvage sufficient nerves to rewire into the prosthetic itself. Quite remarkable science, I must say, but unfortunately not my area of expertise. I can provide you with a sling to reduce your discomfort in the meantime, but Dr. Fitz will have to look at you no later than today.”

Bucky wasn’t pleased with his diagnosis, but the discomfort was increasing by the day, so what could he do?

“I’ll let the Captain know he can come in now,” Dr. Simmons said. “And I’ll tell Dr. Fitz to expect you later. He’s a little preoccupied with urgent technology at the moment, but his evening should be free.”

She smiled at Bucky as she removed her gloves and tossed them in a bin by the door, and then she left.

Steve came rushing in immediately after her departure.

“Bucky, how did it go?”

Bucky sighed, motioning to his arm with his chin. “It’s still gotta be looked at.”

“When?”

“Today.”

Steve nodded, relieved. “That’s good.”

There was static between them, and Bucky was sick and tired of it—the intrigue— so he spoke up first. “You don’t gotta worry about me. I’m fine; it’s just bothersome is all.”

“It looked like more than just a bother to me, Buck,” Steve insisted. “You fell to the floor. You were in pain, and you could have injured yourself worse.”

“Not likely,” Bucky muttered, and it was more to placate the blond’s nerves than it was to reassure himself.

Steve’s opened mouth instantly shut, but his jaw tensed. “I don’t want to be overbearing, Buck, so _please_ , if I’m making you uncomfortable in any way, say something. Don’t keep your frustration bottled up.”

Bucky’s eyes snapped to Steve’s face at that. 

“The only thing that frustrates me is that you’re so quick to jump to conclusions.”

Steve crossed his wrists in front of him and looked down at his feet.

“You presume to know how I feel, or what I think when you don’t know shit. You couldn’t possibly imagine what I’ve been through, or the repercussions my actions have had. The horrors I relive. The guilt I feel. The holes I’m unable to fill. You don’t know what it’s like to not have a clue who you are.

“You try to be understanding and _nice_ to me—even offer me space—but what if that’s not what I want? What if I just need you to stay close?”

Steve let his hands fall to his side as he stepped toward him, crossing the empty space between their bodies. Bucky on the medical cot, and Steve on foot.

“I can’t rebuild my past if you’re not in my present. You think I don’t know we’re connected? We’re tethered by a force stronger than either of us. How else can I explain that I’ve known you hold the answers I seek since New York! I felt it when I saved you from drowning.”

Stepping between Bucky’s legs, Steve’s left hand came to rest on Bucky’s good shoulder, then slid up his neck to cup the back of his head. 

“Tell me what you need, Buck,” he said.

Their eyes met.

“Don’t you get it?” Bucky whispered. “I need you with me.”

Steve nodded furiously. “I won’t leave you,” he said, his eyes searching Bucky’s face. “Not again.”

*

Dr. Fitz examined Bucky later that evening and spent a good hour prodding at the metal arm and making not so inconspicuous remarks about how he needed to get inside it—for science. 

Bucky was reluctant, and quite frankly wary that exposing the interior of the arm might pose a threat to his well-being—might put him in a vulnerable position against these strangers, whom he hadn’t yet come to trust fully. He knew what the scientist types were like. Overzealous and unconscionable. They sought knowledge over all else and denigrated all morality to obtain it.

No. Bucky wouldn’t let them take any more from him—not even his metal arm, which although a burden on his body and his mind, still allowed him mobility, the lack of which would make him feel physically trapped, and at a loss of security.

That Steve was by his side the entire time, as he had promised, was the only reason he allowed the doctor to open him up. So now, he sat on a chair with his arm secured and peeled like a fruit.

“This work is excellently done,” Dr. Fitz said, face pressed close to the circuitry. He missed the scowl that overtook Bucky. “We recovered similar tech a few months ago during a raid in Russia, but it was badly damaged so we couldn’t figure out know how it worked.”

Bucky went rigid. 

Old tech… like his arm? In Russia? 

There was only one explanation for that—

In his periphery, he noticed Steve’s eyes on him, but they flickered back to the doctor as if they hadn’t seen the expression on the ex-soldier’s face. “So is there anything you can do for him?” 

Dr. Fitz craned his neck and stared up at Steve as if he’d forgotten anyone else was in the room with him and the arm.

“Oh, yeah,” he said, removing his magnification eyepiece. “I can build a completely new arm once I’ve had time to figure out how to rewire it, nerves and all, but that will take months, so the best I can offer on such short notice is a cosmetic upgrade: remove several layers of metal from the exterior to lessen the total mass. He won’t be fit for combat until the whole arm gets replaced, though.”

Bucky didn’t like the sound of that. It’s what he had feared. But it was this or pain, and he’d made his choice. “That’s fine,” he said with feigned indifference.

Steve gave him a look. “You’ll be unprotected.”

“I have no intention of getting into altercations anytime soon,” he assured the blond man. And it was true. He had no desire for the infliction of pain, towards others or himself. He’d had his fill—already an entire lifetime of it.

Steve eyed him warily as Dr. Fitz gathered his tools and got to work.

Bucky avoided his questioning gaze and instead turned his attention to what the doctor had said about the Russian technology.

He knew Hydra had experimented with all sorts of advanced and alien tech since the days of Red Skull, but there hadn’t been a need for prosthetics like his until the WWII Zola files on S.H.I.E.L.D’s database were recovered and decrypted. Records that detailed the exact experiments done on him, and now who knew how many others.

His clarity had been returning gradually since being out of service, but he couldn’t remember the last time he was this lucid, nor the last time he was aware of how he’d gotten the arm at all.

He knew there’d been a project to replicate its success and that something went terribly wrong, so it was terminated. That’s what everyone at Hydra had supposed, but there’d never been conclusive evidence to support the theory.

If this organization—which he suspected was what remained of S.H.I.E.L.D— had found the dismembered limbs, then that had to mean the project was realized. Right?

What were the chances some of the experiments were still out there? Perhaps they were being kept frozen like he’d once been? 

Only he knew what would happen if they were ever to thaw. Only he knew the terror that would ensue if there were to be multiple Winter Soldiers running amok at once, especially now that Hydra was obsolete. They’d have no orders.

He imagined it: half a dozen deadly, twisted and amoral creatures, like what he had once been, set loose upon the world, bringing chaos, destruction, death.

He refused to sit idly and watch it happen.

*

“Steve,” Bucky said, back in their room. “There’s something I need to tell you.”

Steve looked at him over his worn copy of _The Art of War_. “What’s up?”

Bucky straightened his posture—struggling with the words in his throat that he could no longer keep in.

“There were other soldiers like me. Weapons. I don’t know too many of the details, I never saw them myself, but I remember my handler mentioned them once. He said that the Russians had been impressed with my—the Soldier’s—feats, and off-handedly implied they wanted to invest resources in some of their own.”

Steve put down his book and slung his legs over the bed, listening to him attentively. “You don’t think—”

“I don’t know,” Bucky responded. “My arm—the technology is _old_ , and the blueprints were lost after WWII, so S.H.I.E.L.D couldn’t have found what they did unless someone recovered those files…. There was a breach, once…I—”

“When? Tell me everything,” Steve said, urgent. 

“It was me…I think. I broke into an SSR base, I don’t know when, and recovered a hard drive of data— terabytes of it. The plans must have been hidden there, and when Hydra got their hands on them…”  
“You think they started experimenting,” Steve said. It wasn’t a question.  
“It’s the most logical conclusion. Steve, that technology, it was tesseract-fueled. The same power that catalyzed the knock-off super soldier serum used on me.”

“But the serum…wasn’t it also lost?”

Bucky shook his head; a tenebrous cloud invaded his eyes.

“Bucky, what is it?” Steve said, the worry making its way to his voice. 

“I––” he tried to say, but his throat ran dry. “It was requisitioned by S.H.I.E.L.D in the ’90s. Howard Stark––he…”

Steve put a hand on his leg, a gesture meant to encourage him on. Bucky felt electricity where the man’s skin branded him.

“I _killed_ him,” he said, shaking. I intercepted his vehicle on the road and staged an accident. I took the last of the serum and killed Howard and Maria Stark. I—I did those things. I—”

His throat tickled with the cob-webbed words as tremors wracked his body.

Steve shot out of his seat and took him in his arms, enveloped him with his entire being. Bucky rested his chin over the bigger man’s shoulder and closed his eyes, trapping the unshed tears while Steve smoothed a hand over his back, careful not to jostle his injured arm. He didn’t say anything. Bucky was sure that he was in shock, too. Bucky had killed Howard Stark. He faintly recalled the two had been friends, had also been—

He drew a blank. 

Steve’s…

_“How long, Steve? How long were ya planning on keeping this from me?”_

_“I had a right to know!”_

_“You’ve never really given me an opening. You’ve always gone on about how you’d seen some_ queers _doing this, or some_ fairies _doing that, and how if it were up to you you’d run them all—all of us— out of town!”_

_“It’s not the same!”_

Bucky recoiled, eyes searching Steve’s anxious face.

“Buck?”

Steve had….Steve was….

“Why are you looking at me like that?”

“L-like what?”

Steve pursed his lips. “Like you don’t know who I am. You’re not…reverting, are you?”

It took Bucky seconds to process the words. Reverting—? No!

No, Bucky wasn’t reverting back to his former, amnesiac self. On the contrary, he was _remembering_. Remembering things he perhaps ought to not have.

“I’m fine,” he lied, scooting back so that his spine was parallel to the wall. Steve remained seated at the edge of his bed, hand chasing after his leg.

Bile rose to Bucky’s throat. 

Steve regarded him carefully but didn’t seem to take the hint. He leaned more weight on his palm—the light pressure felt let like tons to Bucky. “Should I get Dr. Simmons?”

Bucky wanted to say no. He didn’t need a doctor, but the prospect of Steve leaving him alone for a few minutes looked really good, so he nodded slowly. “Yeah, that’d be…yeah.”

Steve squeezed his leg once, making Bucky flinch imperceptibly, before getting on his feet and going to look for the doctor.

Bucky caught his head in his hands once the blond man left the room.

“There’s no way…”

_Steve isn’t…”_

But he was. 

He remembered it now: walking in on Steve and Howard. It was a cold December night. There’d been something he wanted to tell the blond man.

But it was thwarted by an argument, then by a farewell…one that spilled into months of not being able to see or contact each other. Bucky had gone off to the army while Steve stayed in New York to work with Stark and the scientist—Ers…something.

Then the Nazis captured his infantry and Steve saved him––only he wasn’t _Steve_. He was Captain America.

This was all fine and well: coming to terms with the fact Steve Rogers and the Captain were one and the same. The problem was, in the future, Steve wasn’t the person he’d imagined him to be. Not the same person he remembered from before the war, before Hydra. Something about his energy had shifted. His light had changed.

He felt the betrayal in his chest. Had caught symptoms of it when he saw the Smithsonian installation months back when he couldn’t quite place it. Now he had a good idea where it might have come from. 

But why did it matter?

Bucky didn’t have the complete picture of what the ’40s had been like—only a textbook version of facts and a few shallow, scattered memories. All his knowledge of the world had come recently— from this new, modern era. As an undercover Hydra agent, he’d taken on various personas, and some of his…objectives had been men—men he’d been sent to enthrall, in ways that had more to do with lust than with reason. He’d taken to those missions like a moth to a flame.

That…that hadn’t been programmed into him by Hydra, but by the societal norms of the day. For the Soldier—ex-Soldier —having sexual encounters with both men and women had never given him pause. He’d seen it on the streets, in the media, even up close.

So then why did it shake him to his core to know that Steve Rogers had had male partners? 

Why did the mere idea of it make his insides churn?

*

Bucky and Steve stayed at the base for almost a week before Maria Hill found out about the Winter Soldier project, through Steve.

At first, Steve had kept their debrief a secret even from Bucky, but when the ex-Soldier caught the two of them exchanging hushed words outside of their room, he pulled the door open and demanded to know what all the whispers were about. 

Steve wanted to investigate the site where S.H.I.E.L.D had found the Russian tech he and Bucky had speculated about, and he wanted to go at it alone. “You’re not fit for combat, Buck,” he reminded him when Bucky insisted on coming along. 

“I have first-hand insight on what the Soldiers are capable of. I don’t have to remind you that I was Hydra.”

“This isn’t a great time to make puns, Buck,” Steve said, rubbing a palm down his face.

“I wasn’t.” Bucky bit back. 

Maria stared between the two men, growing more exasperated by the second. “If you can’t come to an agreement, I’ll be forced to make the call,” she warned.

Steve stared Bucky down, probably hoping that he would back off if he glared hard enough, but he should have known that would never work on Bucky, the master of glares.

“Ok, he’s going,” Maria said, removing her hand from her hip.

Steve gave her an accusatory look.

Maria shrugged. “He’s got a point, Steve. He knows Hydra better than any of us, and besides, his arm is doing ok now.”

“The doctor made some improvements,” Bucky remarked, before adding, “and even if it weren’t, I’m not completely hopeless without it. I have my guns. You won’t find a better sniper anywhere on this side of the hemisphere.”

Maria raised an eyebrow at Steve, knowing.

Steve exhaled and ran a hand through his damp hair. He’d just returned from showering after a workout.

“Alright. I’m counting on you, buddy.”

Bucky’s lips twitched with a smirk. “We’ll see if you can keep up.”

*

Maria hooked them up with a flight to Germany, where another secret faction of S.H.I.E.L.D would transfer them to Siberia. They would leave that same night after Bucky’s physical condition was checked and he was cleared for the mission—Steve’s only caveat. Dr. Simmons had stared at the bickering men with amusement, which didn’t go unnoticed by Bucky, who scowled at her after Steve left.

“It’s just that you two remind me of Dr. Fitz and I,” she explained. “We’re as close as two peas in a pod, but we bicker like old grannies.”

Bucky saw the wonder on her face smooth into something akin to tenderness. “I suppose it’s only natural to butt heads when you’ve known someone for as long as Fitz and I have. To know someone so intimately is to be acquainted with the cracks in their facade, but I wouldn’t have it any other way. We are in love, you see.”

There was a calm quiet in the room. Bucky could count his heartbeats.

“Steve and I go back eighty years,” he responded quietly, looking down at his hands.

He might have met Steve eighty years ago, but he hadn’t _known_ him for even half that long. So much time had passed since Bucky fell off the train in Austria, and the pieces that had made up the composite of Steve in his mind had scattered with the icy gale of that fateful day.

Anyone else would have felt sadness over the lost time, but Bucky chose to be thankful. Knowing Steve at all was better than not having met him, and now he’d been returned to him as if the winds of the past had finally come full circle.

The doctor pulled her clipboard to her chest. “Oh,” she said, quiet. 

Bucky looked up to see a mischievous twinkle in her eye. She looked at him like she could see through him.

“What?”

The doctor smiled. “You...” she started to say and then, as if thinking better of it, paused. “You haven’t realized.”

Bucky wanted to ask what she meant, but the opening of a door interrupted him, and Dr. Fitz came bounding over to Dr. Simmon’s side. They held each other’s gaze as if the other might spill the secrets of the universe.

“Oh,” Dr. Fitz said, seeing Bucky there. “I came to say that the team is boarding the Zephyr now, and the Sergeant needs to go before they leave him here. The Captain looked like he wouldn’t mind doing just that.”

Bucky nodded absentmindedly as he got off the examination table. He gathered his jacket and showed the doctors his appreciation with a tight-lipped smile.

Dr. Simmons smiled back warmly, and Dr. Fitz touched him gently on the arm as he walked past them on the way out.

When Bucky arrived at the hangar, he saw Steve waiting for him at the mouth of the cargo hold. 

“I heard you were planning to leave me behind,” Bucky reproached. 

Steve pressed his lips together. “I considered it.”

“Oh? What changed your mind?”

Steve shrugged, cracking a smile. “Figured it wasn’t worth putting up with the aftermath once I got back.”

“Smartest idea you’ve had since Romania.”

Bucky mounted the Zephyr and Steve gave the order to close the hatch.

After giving the pilots orders, Steve stepped into the back where Bucky had strapped himself in and took a seat beside him.

“We’ve got a six-hour flight ahead of us. Rest.”

Bucky shook his head. “I’m good.”

Steve’s eyes lingered on him as if hoping he might change his mind this way.

“How about you?” Bucky ventured, trying to take the attention off himself. “What time did you get up this morning? When I woke, you were gone.”

“I have an early routine,” Steve responded. “Went for a run just before sunrise.”

“Of course you did,” Bucky said, unsurprised.

“When we get back, you should join me. I think it would be good for you to get some air.”

“Yeah. Maybe.”

They sat in silence as the plane rumbled its way into the sky. When they started to cruise, Steve unbuckled himself and got up to stretch his legs.

“I remember you being fidgety,” Bucky said, surprising himself more by the comment than perhaps Steve. The blond man gave him a curious look.

“I really can’t sit still for long. Remember when I got really sick in the fifth grade, and my ma condemned me to bed rest? I waited until she left for work to get myself dressed for school, but somehow you knew I would try to leave the house, so you ditched and came right over to make sure I was taken care of.”

Bucky chuckled. “I wouldn’t put it past you, but it doesn’t ring a bell, sorry.”

Steve’s face immediately fell. “I—I guess it’s too much to ask right now…that you remember insignificant things like that when there are much more important—”

“I don’t believe for a second that any of my moments with you were insignificant,” Bucky retorted. Heat rushed to his face when he realized what he said.

Steve rubbed the back of his neck and coughed to clear his throat. “Well, the feeling is mutual,” he said, shy.

The requited admission should have been comforting, should’ve made his embarrassment pass, but Bucky found himself flushing harder. 

Steve came back to sit with him. He took Bucky’s good hand in one of his.  
“Hey, I know we haven’t been able to talk. About what we’ve been through. There’s just so much going on right now with the international police looking for you, the Sokovia Accords, and now the other Winter Soldiers, but if you need to get anything off your chest, there won’t ever be a bad time for me. Unless we’re in the middle of a fight. In that case, well, you know.”

Bucky laughed despite himself, and he looked down at their hands, turning his palm so that he could weave his fingers through Steve’s and clasp their hands together.

“There _is_ one thing I want to ask,” he said, voice dipping even though they were alone.

Steve squeezed his hand, and then urged him on with a nod.

“I—I’ve been…I want to know if…we…”

He stumbled over his words.

Steve was patient.

Bucky shut his eyes and exhaled, letting the tangled words evanesce into the air to make way for new ones. The right ones.

“Were we in love?” he finally said, turning his head to look Steve in the eyes. 

Steve quirked an eyebrow.

“Because,” Bucky continued, “we were close… _really_ close, if what the books say is true, and I don’t know…I can’t remember much of anything if it hasn’t got to do with you…and I’ve had this sensation, for days, that you are…that you’re interested in guys. Like, _into_ them, I mean….”

He was rambling. _Oh, God._

“So,” he said, putting his all into one last weighty question, “Did you and I ever…kiss, or you know, do anything like that?”

Steve stared at him, dumbfounded. When he didn’t say anything for what felt like an eternity, Bucky started to think he’d said something wrong. That perhaps he’d gotten it all wrong.

Steve’s laughter nearly confirmed it. 

It was explosive laughter, the kind that scrunched up all the muscles in your face. Steve’s deep, throaty voice vibrated through him.

“Steve…”

Steve slapped his thigh, hysterical. “I’m sorry—“ he gasped. “If only you knew…”

Bucky pulled his hand away roughly. “What?” 

Trying to stifle his laughter, Steve turned to Bucky, whose jaw had clenched. He took his face in his hands. 

“Hey, don’t be mad, I’m sorry. I wasn’t laughing at you, it’s just that…you opened an old can of worms, that’s all.”

“So, it’s a definite ‘no,’ then,” Bucky said, flat.

As if a lightbulb had suddenly switched on, Steve turned serious. “I love you, Buck. More than words can explain, and that won’t ever change. But we’ve never kissed.” 

Then, his lip twitched with a humorous edge again. “You and I have only ever been close friends.”

Bucky should have left it at that, but the words suddenly triggered a fragment of a memory from their past—one that confused him further.

He’d been upset with Steve when he first found out he liked men. He’d nearly kicked him out into a blizzard. But things must have changed because he also remembered the guilt. The lone nights spent looking at the stars, in some faraway place, wishing he was with Steve and not in the army.

“Did you ever wish we’d been more?” He said, his voice cracking on the last word.

Bucky didn’t miss Steve’s shifty gaze or the slow, nervous gulp in his throat when silence overstayed its welcome. 

“I told you this a long time ago, and I’m going to say it again. I could never wish for something that’d make you uncomfortable. If I did want those things…I—“

A pause.

“Nothing is more important to me than your trust,” he said sternly, looking him in the eye. “Nothing.”

Bucky’s brows furrowed. “Why would that make me uncomfortable?”

At this, Steve released him and leaned away, scrutinizing him.

“Why wouldn’t it? Buck, you were— _are_ — straight as a pole. We even fought--”

Whatever he was going to say died on the tip of his tongue. His eyes glazed over, unfocused for a second, and then they cleared up.

“The point is,” he continued, ignoring Bucky’s inquiring look. “I have always respected your boundaries, and I know you’d never think of doing those things, especially not with me. So rest assured, I won’t give you trouble.”

Trouble? As if Steve Rogers could cause him any trouble when all he’s done so far is help him. In spite of Bucky's reproaches.

As Bucky opened his mouth to retort—to contradict those words— an agent stepped into the cargo hold, consternation all over his face. 

“Captain,” he said, firm. “There’s an urgent call on the line for you.”

Steve turned away from Bucky completely and stood. “From whom?”

The agent looked unsure—like he didn’t take pleasure in being the one to have to convey the message.

Did he think Steve would lash out at him, or something? Bucky had to laugh—almost did.

“Mr. Stark, sir.”

Steve tensed. Bucky could see it in the hard lines of his back and the rigid muscles of his shoulders. His right hand flexed nervously.

Without saying another word, without turning around to tell him he’d be back, Steve brushed past the agent and disappeared from sight. 

When Bucky was alone, he released the breath he’d been holding. 

_Stark._

He had murdered the Senior but hadn’t accounted for the fact that the son was still very much alive and perhaps wanting answers. Fear coursed through him— chilled him to the bone.

It wasn’t just that he might find out what part the Winter Soldier had played in the death of his parents that worried him. There was something about Stark contacting Steve that niggled at the back of his mind—an irksome feeling, like history was about to repeat itself. It made him wonder…

How far did the apple fall from the tree, really?

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Surprise! It's only been half a month since my last update. Chapter 10 will be up by the end of the month, and we're going to be getting a lot of the Avengers up in here! Finally.


	10. Pincushion

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A confession is made? Better late than never.

 

 

Bucky’s vision momentarily blackened as he lay on the cold stone floor, but the whoosh of Steve’s shield followed by a blast and then a clang brought him back to consciousness. He wanted to stand, to get back in the fight, but when he tried to prop himself up, he remembered his arm had been blasted off just moments ago. The pain came sizzling seconds later as if to confirm the reality he was in. That he was not dreaming this all up.

He tilted his head while still on the ground, and saw as Stark’s suit finally recalibrated to match Steve’s fight style, and Steve could no longer inflict damage, at least not hand-to-hand. If only he had his shield, but it lay meters away from him.

Bucky willed himself to stand, to pick up the vibranium disk. When it was in his grasp, he rammed it into the back of the Iron Man suit, which distracted Stark long enough for Steve and Bucky to alternate blows, and they kept at it until Stark became sloppy and could no longer decide who his target was. When the suited man was on his knees, Bucky stepped away to let Steve handle the situation alone. Steve had better judgment. 

Stark blocked his face as Steve drove the edge of the shield through the arc reactor on his chest, powering down the suit.

“Why didn’t you finish it, coward?” Stark spat, his face revealed now that his visor was down. His eyes were red and burning, and that was the first time Bucky had seen pure hatred on a man’s face. 

“I wasn’t trying to hurt you,” Steve said, panting. “You brought this on yourself.”

“He killed my mom!”

“It wasn’t him. He never meant to—“  
“Don’t you dare speak for him!” Stark snarled.

Bucky looked away, an ache in his chest.

“You can’t even defend yourself,” Stark accused, looking at Bucky. He was still down, the suit too heavy for him to move in it. “This isn’t over.”

“Tony, please,” Steve said, helping him sit up, and Stark had no choice but to let him because he was immobile. “I’m going to take Bucky away from here, but first I need you to tell me who to call.”

“Kiss my titanium ass, Rogers.”

Steve sighed, and Bucky hated the look of utter devastation in those blue eyes. Steve didn’t deserve to go through this because of him. Even after all it had taken for him to be convinced otherwise, he didn’t feel he was worth it. He was damaged, and no effort on Steve’s part would fix him. Who were they kidding?

Steve grabbed Stark by the underarms and hauled him over to a wall so that he wouldn’t tip back over. 

“I’m calling Rhodey,” Steve said resolutely. “I know you hate to worry Pepper.”

Stark scoffed. “Don’t pretend to care about how I feel, Mr. Self-Righteous.”

Bucky personally recoiled from the jibe. He’d said something very similar to Steve just a few days back. The difference is that it had come from a place of annoyance, while Stark looked like he meant every word.

“Don’t know why I ever thought we were friends. If this is how you honor my dad’s memory, then God knows you didn’t deserve his friendship either—he _gave_ you that shield. He gave you this—”

His voice cut off with a pained grunt.

_Life_ was the word that hung silently in the air.

Steve stared at the shield in his hand for a moment, as if cataloging its structure one last time, and then he propped it against the wall beside Stark and stepped away.   
“I’m really sorry, Tony,” he said softly.

He looked so small and sad that Bucky wanted to hold him. 

Stark averted his gaze, obstinate.

Steve reached for Bucky, pulled him away, and together they started for the exit

“Bucky, your arm,” Steve said, abruptly halting his steps.

Bucky looked back at the severed limb—the very one that had caused so much destruction and death—all dull and powerless in the penumbra of a shadow. It was now one more addition to the collection of dismembered super soldier parts in this graveyard that used to be a Russian base. The other Winter Soldiers had died here, and now it was time to bury this one, too.

“Leave it,” he said.

Steve gave him a look as if to say that there would be no coming back for it.

Bucky raised his chin and kept walking.

*

A S.H.I.E.L.D jet was waiting outside for them when they exited the base. Steve immediately went to send word to Rhodey about Tony, who was not at all pleased with what he had to say.

Bucky could hear his faint voice through the receiver even when pressed to Steve’s ear, but he couldn’t make out the words, only the tone. He was angry, and Steve took the reproaches like a Soldier, head bowed and obedient. 

When the message was delivered, Steve ended the call with a sigh.

Bucky didn’t dare say anything. It was his fault Steve had had to do all that—fight his friend, hurt him, and carry Bucky’s—the Winter Soldier’s— burden.

But a part of him also thought Stark had deserved it, talking to Steve as if everything that had gone wrong in his life were somehow his fault. It was unconscionable.

Steve turned around and rubbed at the juncture of Bucky’s undamaged neck and shoulder, firm.   
“I’m sorry, Buck.”

Bucky’s eyes snapped to Steve’s face. “Don’t start,” he warned.

“But I put you in this situation.”

“ _No_. No, you didn’t. None of this is your fault.”

Steve was about to argue back, but Bucky was fed up with his excuses and shoved him down into his seat, hard.

“Now you listen to me, Steven Grant Rogers.” 

Steve shut his mouth. He knew better than to keep pushing when Bucky got this way.

“You weren’t the one who killed the Starks, and you can’t be blamed for trying to save the life of the man who did it. Maybe it wasn’t your call to make, but that doesn’t make you wrong. The only person here who needs to face the law is me.”

“But that wasn’t—“

“Enough!” Bucky shouted. He hadn’t ever raised his voice at Steve, as far as he knew, and he immediately saw the deep hurt that it caused the blond man. “I need to take responsibility. It’s the only way I’ll be able to—”

He took a deep breath, letting the words swirl on his tongue. 

“To heal and move on with my life, whatever grim sliver of it remains after…all this.”

Steve shot up to his feet and threw his arms around him. “You don’t have to do this alone,” he said into Bucky’s neck. “I promised to stay by your side, and I’m going to keep it.”

There was a plea hidden in those words. 

Bucky closed his eyes and returned Steve’s desperate embrace. “I know.”

Deep down, he knew that it didn’t matter what he said; Steve would never break his word. It was just who he was, and Bucky couldn’t deny that he also hoped he would always stand by him. Even though he wished he could sever their line, Bucky clung to Steve as if his presence gave him breath. It was selfish, but he wanted to remain close to him, too. He wanted to be greedy for Steve. He wanted to take care of him as Steve had been doing.

Bucky’s heart skipped a beat. 

Steve meant a lot to him, more than words could express; Bucky would lay down his life for him. Why couldn’t Steve understand? 

When he looked at Steve, every miraculous and beautiful part of him, he saw the world. He wanted to stare him in the eyes and tell him all these things, face to face. Tell him what he felt. No pretenses.

But he knew he couldn’t. Not now. Not when Bucky was preparing to pay for his crimes. Not when he could be taken away, and Steve would have to suffer doubly from his absence. He couldn’t give him hopes, wings, and yearning only for it all to be snatched away in one cruel instant. He’d never put him through that pain.

So he disentangled himself from the bigger man and offered him a shaky smile. 

“I don’t deserve you.”

Steve’s lips turned down for a fraction of a second, and then pressed into a grim line. “I don’t care what the world says. You didn’t ask for this. If it hadn’t been for my mistake, you’d never have become Hydra’s weapon. ”

Bucky rolled his wet eyes. 

“You’re so stupid. And stubborn.”

Steve cracked a smile. “I’m not stubborn.”

“Oh, yeah? Then what?” Bucky raised his chin.

“Brave,” Steve whispered, bridging the distance between them. “You said it yourself, a long time ago.”

Bucky’s eyes flitted to Steve’s mouth. When had he moved in so close? He could feel Steve’s breath on his face.

Bucky wished he could borrow some of that braveness for himself, wished he could press forward and share the same breath, but Steve didn’t move. He looked at Bucky like he was waiting for him to say something.

Bucky inhaled sharply. 

Before anything else could occupy his mind, the blond man’s personal phone started to ring.

They both turned to the sound coming from Steve’s jacket, which was strewn two seats from where Bucky had pushed the other man down. 

Who could be calling at such a time? 

Steve reached for the noisy device and tentatively answered the call. “Hello?”

Bucky eyed the phone suspiciously, and Steve paled as soon as the person spoke.

Bucky tensed with him.

“Yes, he’s here,” Steve said, looking at Bucky. “I’ll put you on speaker.”

He pressed a button and said, “Go ahead.”

“Sergeant Barnes?” It was a man’s voice. 

“Yeah?” Bucky answered, eyes welded to Steve’s bewildered blues.

“First of all, I just want to say I’m a big fan of yours! I have mint condition trading cards of the Howling Comman—”

“Agent Coulson,” Steve interjected, firm. “Please?”

“Oh, right. I got carried away. It’s not every day a man gets to speak to his boyhood heroes. Sorry about that.”

Bucky had no idea what was going on. Who was this man, and why had Steve looked like he saw a ghost?

“I’m calling to give you some much-needed good news…”

*

“Are you sure we’re in the right place?”

“The coordinates say we have to go through here, and then we’ll be at our destination, but I don’t see anything.”

“I think Coulson played us.”

“Maybe he just gave us the wrong numbers.”

“Well, what do we do?”

“We should keep going, maybe we’ll spot it over that—what the hell?”

The jet suddenly shook as if it were under fire. One moment Bucky saw lush greenery—ahead, below, around them—and in the next, he was looking at a beautiful modern city with an equally grandiose palace right in the center. Everything, as far as the eye could see, looked like it belonged in a sci-fi movie.

“That wasn’t there a minute ago,” Bucky said, alert.

Steve was just as taken by the sight as he was. “Not what I imagined when Coulson told us he found us refuge at a highly secret location.”

Bucky snorted. “Who hides an entire city behind a forcefield?”

Steve’s eyes raked over an impressive statue on the facade of a hill. “The Prince of Wakanda, if I have to make a guess.” 

Bucky followed Steve’s gaze and saw it too, carved in obsidian stone: a black panther. He looked around, at the intricate monuments, the shiny metal buildings, and the sunset casting golden hues over every structure and organic matter. He’d never seen such an enchanting sight: a visual dichotomy of the industrial and natural.

“Can we stay here forever, Steve?”

*

When the jet landed just beyond the palace and the two weary men deplaned, they were approached by Prince T’Challa himself, and an entourage of warrior guards by his side.

“Captain,” the man said, a polite smile on his face. Then he turned to Bucky, and it faltered. “Sergeant Barnes, welcome.”

Bucky wracked his brain for a possible explanation for the frown, and then he remembered. _The U.N. attack._ King T’Chaka perished in the explosion that everyone had thought _he_ had caused. 

Bucky scrambled for words to express his lament. 

“Your Highness, I’m—”

The Prince raised his palm, silencing him. “Please, there is no need for that. I’m the one who owes you an apology.”

Steve threw Bucky a furtive glance, noticeably taken aback by the Prince’s admission.

“I persecuted you without having all the facts,” he explained, somber, “until my informants—the Watch Dogs— and I dug further and found the real culprit: a man called Baron Zemo. We still do not know what his plot was. He was apprehended not two days ago, with the help of Agent Coulson and his team, and has been locked up for interrogation by S.H.I.E.L.D.”

Steve nodded knowingly. “I hope you get answers soon.”

“Yes.” T’Challa agreed. “But come inside so we can speak at ease.”

Bucky and Steve walked behind the Prince as they were led through the palace. They arrived at a large, decorated room with floor-length windows overlooking the city, which was now starting to light up in the sunset’s aftermath.

“Okay.”

Steve and Bucky took their places before the Prince. The royal guards remained standing. 

“T’Challa waved them off. “Let’s not make our guests uncomfortable.”

One of the women, a tall, fierce beauty wearing a suit a different color from the rest, glanced warily at the Prince and then at Bucky. She looked adamant to stay.

“Okoye, be friendly.”

The woman pulled back her shoulders and reluctantly went to stand with the other armed women at the side of the room, where they could easily be called from if needed. 

Bucky guessed it was his presence that unnerved them. He might not have been responsible for the King’s death, but that didn’t overrule that he’d been a Hydra agent just a few months ago. Try as he may forget that nightmare, he was still dangerous, unstable, and who knew what triggers might call back the Soldier—bring him out of hibernation. He’d been lucky so far, but he couldn’t hide from the inevitable forever. One day the Winter Soldier would return—he could feel his presence tugging at the corners of his consciousness— and measures would have to be taken to protect those he cared about from him.

*

T’Challa explained to them why he had extended them an offer to stay in Wakanda. Apparently, as soon as Steve had decided to find and aid Bucky, he became a fugitive as well: the Winter Soldier’s accomplice. 

Though the media was now reporting the truth about the U.N. attack, no one had forgotten Bucky’s other crimes, for which he was still most wanted. 

At first, Tony Stark had tried to mitigate the damage done to Steve’s reputation by distorting the truth behind his apparent desertion, but with the government hell-bent on pushing the Sokovia Accords, Steve had been molded into a scapegoat—a prime example of what would happen if heroes were to be left unchecked. With that, Stark’s influence was dampened, and it didn’t help matters that he now also had motives to side with the law. 

Bucky didn’t know how Tony Stark had found out about his parents, but it was clear that he wanted justice, preferably by his own hands.

“Who do we have on our side?” He dared to ask.

Steve pursed his lips. “Sam, definitely. Natasha, I’m not too sure about, but she kind of owes me one. Wanda is under house arrest, and I know she’s not too happy about that. S.H.I.E.L.D’s also shown us we can count on their support.”

“As well as mine.” T’Challa reminded.

Bucky nodded, deliberate and grim. He didn’t know these people, but if Steve trusted them, he would have to as well.

“It’s a good start,” Steve told him, placing a hand on Bucky’s thigh.

“Yes, but what good will this do? I have to face the law eventually.”

“Some people want to see you dead, not in prison, or in a rehabilitation center.” T’Challa reasoned. “Not long ago, I was one of them.”

“We’ll stay here until we can come to an agreement with the government, Buck. I can try to talk Tony down, and we can find you legal representation. Someone who understands your case and can sway the public to our side.”

Bucky’s stomach dropped with each of Steve’s honeyed words. “I don’t want you to be disappointed when this doesn’t go the way you want it to.” 

Steve squeezed his leg to comfort him. “We have to be optimistic.”

*

When the Prince had talked up Wakandan tech, Bucky had had high expectations. He’d even imagined hover cars, which by the way, _check_. But what he saw in the laboratory was beyond what he could have dreamed up, and Bucky _liked_ science. In fact, he remembered hoping that Hydra would send him on a mission to space one day.

“Should I call the janitor to clean your drool off the floor?”

Bucky looked at Steve, incredulous. “Are you not seeing this!”

Steve took a moment to scan the facility. “It’s really impressive, but working with S.H.I.E.L.D has desensitized me to the technological marvels of the 21st century. Though I will say, a lot of this stuff looks like it could outperform even the Iron Man suit.”

“Oh, there’s no doubt about that,” said a new voice. 

Steve and Bucky turned on their heels and saw a teenage girl walking toward them, dressed in casual clothing as opposed to the traditional garb they had seen on almost everyone since arriving.

“I’m Princess Shuri, the head engineer. You must be the white boy my brother told me about,” she said as she looked pointedly at Bucky’s new arm. 

Steve nodded politely. “Your Highness.”

Bucky swept the facility with his eyes. “You made all this stuff?”

Shuri grinned. “Don’t look so surprised.”

“I’m not—I—wow!”

Steve chuckled.

“Looks like his speech box needs an update as well,” Shuri mused, tapping her bottom lip with a manicured finger. 

“No, that’s just how he is.”

“I see. Well, let’s take a look at that monstrosity. Thanks for letting me analyze it, by the way. My brother told me it was impressive tech by American standards, but wait until you see what a little Wakandan science can do for you.”

Shuri beckoned Bucky over to her work station while Steve went to take a look around. Bucky had caught him eyeing the various Black Panther suits for a while now.

“How old are you?” Bucky had to ask, still full of wonder.

“Sixteen,” she replied, smug, as Bucky laid down on some hi-tech examination table. There was a hologram screen at the top of the table that lit up the same purple hue as the buildings in the city as they had seen them through the Prince’s windows. “Be still while I run a scan.”

He did as he was told. Shuri pressed a couple of buttons on the screen, then a panel moved over him and began scanning him down from head to torso, like a copy machine, but for people.

“From what I can see already, it looks like the structure of the original arm was very intricate from a merely technological standpoint, but a biological input must have also been needed to a achieve such a seamless electrode communication to the somatosensory cortex. The Americans did a good job patching you up, I admit.”

Though the terminology flew over Bucky’s head, he could see the Princess' interest was genuine. Bucky had wielded the arm; he knew better than anyone how impressive it was, and that it wasn’t something that had simply been affixed to him, like a pair of reading glasses. It was a part of him. When he’d needed the arm to do something, all he had to do was think it. Over time, it had even come to feel like a real arm, with its heat and texture sensors, so yeah, it hurt like a bitch when it got blown off. 

They were undeniably brilliant, Dr. Simmons and Dr. Fitz, and that they’d been able to mend him in such a short time was a testament to that. 

“Actually, let’s do a full body scan. I want to get a complete picture.”

Bucky gave her the go-ahead, and she resumed her task. 

Steve walked over to the table quietly.

His eyes met Steve’s, and Bucky could swear he saw something akin to desperation in them. It was a troubled look.

“Relax,” Bucky said softly, and Steve’s shoulders slumped. 

“Sorry,” he muttered. “I’m not good at this. I’m the one who should be telling you that.”

Bucky tried his best to not shrug while he was still being scanned. “You have other charms.”

*

Bucky was in and out of the lab for days, during which time Shuri had drawn up a blueprint for a replacement arm that she designed with his body frame in mind. The old model had slowed him down and was no longer proportionate to his weight, being that he no longer kept up with his handler’s strict workout regimens. By the end of the week, she had built a prototype that very nearly matched the fluidity and precision of his flesh arm. 

Bucky had been wildly impressed with the first model, but Shuri being Shuri, wanted to make a few more upgrades and modifications before entirely hooking up the arm to him, so he didn’t get to wield it until almost three weeks after their arrival in Wakanda.

Three weeks turned into a month and then into two, and Bucky had not only begun to physically feel his best, but he was also regaining some piece of mind. To help him with his memory exercises, Shuri developed a machine that would put him in a state of reflective meditation. In just a matter of days, he’d found it easier to reach into the drawers of his mind to recall specific details and then complete events, not fragments of memories riddled with holes, like he’d only been able to do thus far.

His most precious discovery as of late was that he’d had a sister: Becca, whom he remembered doting on as a child, and then becoming slightly fearful of as she grew older and more abrasive. But he also remembered his parents, and the torture they had all endured at the hands of Bucky’s father. When he had recognized one particular anecdote, Bucky almost tore himself out of the expensive contraption with his new arm. Shuri documented the outburst and installed a tranquilizer that would activate and sedate him if his vitals ever reached those highs again.

Otherwise, Bucky felt revitalized--even his skin had taken on a light golden hue from the hours spent doing farm work while Steve was away recruiting allies.

T’Challa had told him about an old couple whose son was studying abroad, who needed help with their livestock, and that’s what he was doing now: tending to the goats corralled on their plot of land in the hillside. 

Bucky hauled a stack of hay over his shoulders and deposited the bundle into a shed for the night. He had to hurry up before sunset so he could go sit at his favorite spot to watch the vibrant oranges and pinks of the sky as the sun went down. 

Shuri told him it would benefit him to have a routine so that he could reacclimatize to a normal life, and this was one of his new traditions. Well…his and Steve’s, but he wasn’t around—hasn’t been for weeks— and Bucky was starting to grow lonely. Even with Shuri helping to rehabilitate him, and the Wakandan children whom he’d befriended coming to play with him and the goats almost daily.

When Bucky was done with his chores, he grabbed his shawl and his notebook and went to sit under an acacia tree on a nearby cliff.

He opened the book and started to write in it the memories he had collected that day.

_Today I remembered Agent Carter_ , he wrote. _When I first met her, she was so strong and beautiful. We butt heads a lot at first, but we put our differences aside for Steve’s sake. In hindsight, she was a lot of Becca that way, and in many ways, she was like a substitute for her when I couldn’t have the real thing in front of me. The war went on for so long—so many months had passed since we said our goodbyes, and I missed her. I wanted to hold her in my arms and reassure her like I’d done countless times as children. I wished to be able to tell her that the war was over and I’d be coming home, but I never could. I felt like a failure for breaking the promise I made to her after we lost mom, that I would never leave her side. When Steve disappeared, my mind was always so full of him that I neglected her. She might’ve needed me, and I wouldn’t have known._

_And for that I am sorry, too._

Bucky paused, marveling at the smudged letters where raindrops had fallen on the page without him noticing, but when he tilted his head up, he saw the sky was clear.

_I looked up Becca the other day, with Shuri’s help. Turns out she married some guy, Ben, and they had two kids. A girl named Winnie, after mom, and a boy named James. I would have liked to meet them. I think I could have been a good uncle._

Bucky wrote for a while longer, and when he was finished, the sky had already turned purple. He’d missed the sunset entirely. 

Disappointed, he stood and dusted himself off.

Tonight, he was going to have his dinner in his room. He wanted to be alone with his thoughts.

*

Bucky arrived to a commotion in the main entrance hall. There were faces he didn’t recognize, people wearing everything from military uniforms to casual clothing, which put him on alert. 

Outsiders were rare in Wakanda. They weren’t exactly welcome.

Through the crowds of people, a voice called his name.

Bucky turned his head, and his eyes were pulled to Steve. Steve, who was just as resplendent as he’d always been, especially when he looked so warm. His eyes radiated it.

“What’s that on your face?” Bucky teased, as Steve pulled him in for a hug.   
“It’s hair, Buck,” the blond answered, flat.

“You couldn’t grow facial hair before the—“

“Serum. Yeah, I remember, too,” Steve said. His lips pressed into a line. 

“Why didn’t anyone tell me you’d arrived? Who are all these people?” Bucky motioned to the crowd around them. There had to be at least two dozen outsiders and twice as many Dora Milaje.

“I was about to go look for you,” Steve said, putting a hand around Bucky’s waist and guiding him to a small cluster of strangers. “These are allies, Buck! They’ve come to help us. Help _you_.”

Bucky’s lips twitched downward instinctively.

“This is Sam Wilson,” Steve said, introducing him to a fit, dark-skinned man around Bucky’s height. “Sam, meet Bucky.”

“Hey, man!” said the affable man, offering his hand for a shake, which Bucky returned, wary. “I don’t bite.” 

“Sam is the one who helped me trace you to Romania. He’s been with me every step of this journey. I owe him a lot.” 

Bucky watched as Steve grinned sunnily at Sam. He hadn’t seen Steve smile that way since Bucky accidentally called him by his first name the day he found him in Romania. 

Sam must mean a lot to him, Bucky thought. He didn’t know how to feel about that. On the one hand, he was ecstatic for Steve, for having found a friend to rely on and who would take care of him when Bucky was gone. But he also felt something more—something inexplicable. Something tumultuous.

Bucky turned to Sam. “I should thank you, then” he said, with a smile that froze midway.

Sam waved him off. “No worries, man. I’m glad we were able to find you. Besides, it’s no skin off my back. I’ll follow my Captain anywhere.”

Bucky’s vision went white as another memory crept up behind his lids. The surprise paralyzed him.

_”Ready to follow Captain America into the jaws of death?”_

_“Nah. That little guy from Brooklyn who was too dumb not to run away from a fight, I’m following him.”_

“Hey, are you ok?” Steve’s voice lulled him out of his stupor.

“Huh? Oh, yeah. Sorry.”

“If you’re tired, we can leave the introductions for another time,” Steve murmured into his ear, to overcome the deafening drone of chatter in the hall. 

Bucky felt the gentle caress of Steve’s lips against his skin as he nodded in agreement. 

“I am a little drained.”

With that, Steve offered his apologies to the small group of people with them, and to Sam, and walked Bucky away.

When they arrived at his guest room on the third floor, Bucky made a beeline for the bed, even though he was sweaty and hadn’t showered after his long day of manual labor.

Steve frowned at that but didn’t call him out on it.

When Bucky was on his stomach, and his eyes began to close, he felt the bed dip on the other side.

“You hungry?”

Bucky didn’t want to admit that his stomach had been growling shortly before entering the palace. He shrugged.

“Rest for now. I’ll bring you something in a bit.”

Bucky dozed off almost immediately after Steve left. Even though his friend was back, the last thought that crossed Bucky’s mind before going under was how much he missed him. When he woke, he’d think himself ridiculous for it.

*

The next day at breakfast, Bucky got to spend time with Sam alone. Steve had gone out with the Prince to discuss new security details, seeing as how Steve had brought back with him a team of American agents who, until last night, hadn’t known of Wakanda’s true identity as a technological paradise.

Bucky watched as Sam munched on a slice of fruit—melon and then a strawberry, he had carefully observed—all the while avoiding his stare.

Finally, the man placed his fork down and looked at him pointedly. “Do you mind?”

Bucky’s eyes narrowed as he ripped a piece of bread with his teeth. 

Sam sighed. “Look, I don’t know what your deal is, but can you save the glares for when I’m not trying to have a peaceful meal? It’s not good for the digestion.”

Bucky reached for an apple in the bowl in front of Sam and sat back down, obstinate.

“Okay, whatever,” Sam said, standing. He wiped his mouth on a napkin, tossed it down on the table, and marched off.

Bucky watched him go, a small smirk on his lips.

He knew very well that Sam hadn’t done anything wrong, and that he was childish for trying to get him to blow, but for whatever reason, it felt good to mess with him. Sam’s reactions were fun. He was kind and generous like Steve, but Bucky could sense in him a mischievous and sarcastic edge akin to his own. Even if, for Steve’s sake, he was trying his best to reel it in. Though Bucky wouldn’t admit it out loud, he kind of liked the guy for it. Maybe they’d even become friends.

As he started to nibble on a piece of ham, a hand fell on Bucky’s shoulder, and he shot out of his seat, startled.

“Woah, there.” 

When Bucky’s heart rate decelerated, he swiveled around to face the woman who’d snuck up behind him. Her flaming hair and piercing cat-like eyes burned with familiarity.

“Do I know you?” He said, and something in the woman’s gaze faltered.

“You better,” she replied, the hard mask coming back on. She took a seat beside him and popped a grape from his plate into her mouth. “You tried to kill me.”

Bucky processed that for a second before remembering. “The woman who almost shot me in the eye.”

“In the flesh,” she said, smug. “Though we actually go farther back than that.”

Bucky tried to place her in some other memory but failed. “Sorry, I don’t remember.”

Natasha shrugged. “No sweat. It’s probably best you don’t remember anything from that time, anyway.”

That time? There was only one period of his life he didn’t want to recall.

“Hydra?”

The woman nodded absentmindedly. Her eyes had drifted as if the name alone had taken her somewhere far.

“So what are you doing here?” He asked.

Anyone with links to Hydra was bound to bring bad news, and anyway, he didn’t know who this woman was, or if she was a true ally like all the others who had arrived the day before.

“I’m here because Steve asked me to come, but I’m also here for you.”

Bucky tensed, wondering if the words carried another meaning. Vaguely, he remembered that he’d left his knives in his room and berated himself for it. But he wasn’t defenseless. He balled his metal hand into a fist as a reminder that it was there.

“There’s something I have to warn you about.”

*

Bucky slumped in his seat, defeated by the woman’s words. All his fears were coming true. This couldn’t be possible—it couldn’t!

“It might not be a good time to introduce myself after surprising you with bad news like that, but better late than never. I’m Natasha. You knew me once as Natalia. We were partners in crime.”

Bucky’s pulse raced again. If he had his machine, he’d be able to place all those details in some concrete manifestation, but he was far too addled to let the information sink in and process.

Natasha looked him over with concern. “Will you be alright?”

Bucky didn’t know how to respond, didn’t even know how to think. 

“Are you sure?” He finally asked, his voice thin. “There’s no mistake?”

Natasha pursed her lips and nodded. “I tried to track it down myself. Burn it. But it was gone. I was too late.”

“Well then, who has it?” Bucky asked, his voice rising.

Natasha winced.

“My informants told me a man took it. A scientist type, I couldn’t get a name. The book was left behind by Hydra during a raid. It was found strewn across the floor in one of the hangars as if someone meant to take it with them. You do know what it means that someone has it, right?”

Bucky stood and kicked his chair away. “Of course I do.”

“What do you plan on doing?”

“What _can_ I do?” He said, desperate. “If I go out there, I’ll be putting myself _and Steve_ in danger.”

“Then let me go after it,” Natasha said, firm. “I’ll find and destroy it. It’s the least I can do after leaving you to face the full force of Hydra’s discontentment all those years ago.”

Bucky spun around to face her, eyes wild. “What?”

Natasha averted her gaze. “It’s a long story, one I’m not entirely proud of, but you’ll know it soon enough.”

“Fine,” Bucky said, calming himself down. “Just…don't tell anyone, okay? Especially not Steve.”

“You’re worried he’ll go looking for it?”

“He already has a lot of things on his plate,” Bucky said, pained. “As for you, later, you’re going to have to fill me in on this debt you want to pay off.”

Natasha cracked a smile. “I think it’ll be better if I showed you.”

*

Bucky lay on the dirt, breathless, as the sun beat down on his face, and his chest rose and fell deeply.

_Ow._

“What? Tired already?”

He had a sensation of deja-vu as the redhead smiled coyly and looked down at his defeated form. Or rather, it wasn’t he who had sensed it, but the Soldier. He was in there with him, like a train passenger looking out the window, anxious to get off. No, like a remora attached to a manta ray. A parasite feeding off Bucky’s mind.

He’d been trying to keep the Soldier at bay these last few weeks. There were so many more people in his life he didn’t want to get hurt, and it was becoming harder to push him back. He didn’t know how much longer he’d be able to hold out. Bucky feared he’d just switch into the other guy without warning one of these days, and not be able to turn back.

“I’m just out of practice.”

Natasha laughed, sardonic. “Some things don’t change. You’ve never been one to admit defeat, especially to me.”

Bucky had no idea what she meant by that, but he extended a hand for her to take and help him up. She did. 

“So, that didn’t jog your memory?”

Bucky shook his head. “Sorry.”

Natasha looked downcast for a moment before patting his back, firm. Assuringly.

On their way back to the palace, Natasha asked Bucky to sit down with her on the edge of a low stone wall. 

“I have something for you.”

Bucky raised an eyebrow, curious.

She pulled out a stack of papers from the inside of her vest and proffered them to him. Bucky looked down at the beaten parchment. The corners were blunt and the surfaces stained.

“What is this?”

“When Hydra fell, all the Winter Soldier files pertinent to you were disclosed, and I came across them during an investigation.”

Natasha pursed her lips as if she couldn’t say more on that, despite Bucky’s interest.

“When I went looking for the book,” she continued, “I found a Hydra storage facility where they had kept antiquities and keepsakes from WWII. Inside was a locker filled with original drafts of the arm, the mind-control chair, the cryo chambers. It was all there. I took whatever I could load on my jet, and when I got a chance to look at everything, I found these. They were already open.”

She looked sheepish.

Bucky took the papers and began to unfold them.

“I’ll give you some space,” Natasha said, hopping off the wall and trudging back inside.

Bucky noticed the messy scrawl on the back of one of the pages, and his breath hitched at the sender address: Camp Lehigh, NJ.

He turned it over.

_Dear Buck,_

_Are you surprised? It’s been months since I last replied to one of your letters; I wasn’t avoiding you, I swear. I just didn’t know how to tell you that I’ve joined the army. Don’t be mad. After Erskine’s new project was approved for testing, they sent a bunch of us to this camp for secret training. They said they’d pick one of us to be its recipient, that if things went well, we’d all be going to fight on the front lines with the others. To join the war and do it in good health, you know I couldn’t pass that up, Buck. You know how long I’ve wanted this. How much I hated sending you off with strangers when it should have been me by your side. I had to do this._

_Promise that when I see you in Europe, whenever that may be, you won’t accost me with any more reproaches. I want you to be happy for me. For us. Please understand, Buck. I’ll see you soon._

_Your pal,_

_Steve_

Bucky shuffled through the letters, reading each one carefully until the words became embedded in his brain. In them, Steve recounted how after months of training he’d been chosen as the first to try the serum out, how the transformation had hurt like nothing he’d ever experienced in all his years of suffering from all sorts of ailments, but that it was worth it in the end. He talked about how on the day that he transformed, a spy had hidden among them and shot Dr. Erskine dead before attempting to run away with a vial of the serum. Steve had thwarted his plans with his newfound strength and speed. At last, his body had allowed him to do good—to act on all those well-intentioned hopes and aspirations that had been suppressed by his former shell.

The letters spanned months, and Bucky wasn’t sure where they would take him until he fingered the last of the letters and saw it was dated just days before Captain America rescued Bucky and the other imprisoned soldiers in Austria. 

Steve had encouraged Bucky to sift through his S.H.I.E.L.D files so that he could learn about his life as Bucky Barnes, but he had found himself memorizing all the particularly unpleasant events instead, much to Steve’s dismay. 

He looked it over five times, making sure he’d read it correctly.

The date was irrefutable. Steve had written this before the attack at Azzano. Before he learned that Bucky had been taken.

_Hey, Buck,_

_It’s me again. I’m a little embarrassed writing this, I know I probably shouldn’t, but things aren’t going well on my tour. Today’s audience didn’t take to my act, and I made a fool of myself. This was the first time anything like that has happened. It felt like someone pushed me into a barrel of freezing water. Some people are upset that I’m not wielding real arms, and even Colonel Phillips is starting to complain. I don’t blame him. I don’t blame the soldiers either. They’re right. I should be doing more._

_When I signed up for this job, I thought I’d be helping people, that I would be saving lives, and in a way, that’s precisely what I’m doing, but I don’t know. It wasn’t just a job I wanted, but a purpose, and I believe that I’ll be of more help on the battlefield, with you. A new friend of mine, you’ll meet her someday, I hope, reminded me that this caricature isn’t what Dr. Erskine died for. It wasn’t what I put all my effort into becoming, either._

_You’ll remember that when I was small, everyone used to say I was a hopeless case, that I’d never amount to anything before finally dropping dead. But now that I’m physically able, the restrictions imposed on me come from the government and not my body, and at times it feels like another fight I can’t win. Like there’s another battle I can’t be a part of. It’s funny, isn’t it? That I’ve spent my entire life in suits that don’t fit. But I’m no quitter. You know that. So, I’m done pretending, and I’m done lying. To me, to you, and to everyone. And I’ll start to clear my conscience with the thing I’ve been most afraid to confess to you. God knows that when I write this down I’ll be too chicken to send it, but maybe that isn’t the point. Perhaps I just need to get the honest truth out in any form I can. The fact of the matter is, I’ve loved you since we were kids. I loved you still when I tried to convince us both we were just friends, and I was torn up on inside. I know you don’t feel the same way, and I’m not hoping for you to reciprocate these low feelings of mine, but I thought you should know, because you deserve to confirm your suspicions, and who knows how long this war will last, or if I’ll ever get to say them to you in person. I love you, Buck. If when we meet, you want to pretend this letter never made its way to you, I’ll understand._

_Yours always,_

_Steve_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The last chapter will be posted in February.   
> This is it, the final stretch.
> 
> A sacrifice will be made, but something else will be gained from it.  
> .  
> .  
> .  
> (And yes, those were the letter Steve gave Bucky many chapters ago, that Bucky never got to read)


	11. Back-Stitch (Part 1)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bucky and Natasha suit up, and Steve isn't pleased.

 

Bucky faced the pale sky, the edges still dark blue where the light of sunrise had not yet reached. The air was undisturbed, all was serene, and Bucky loved this. Loved everything about waking up to these clear Wakandan skies, loved hearing the warbling of birds as they swooped across the horizon. He also loved the smell of green pastures around him, which extended just past the city below only to be swallowed by the forest’s verdant mouth. 

Bucky’s fingers slipped through short strands of hair, and the weight on his lap shifted, roused to consciousness.

“What a nice view to wake up to, huh, Stevie?”

The warm body pressed closer to his stomach, nosing his chest. 

The silence that enveloped them did not surprise him. He looked down and made contact with a pair of dark eyes. 

“You’re a great cuddler, but a lousy companion,” he said, giving his hairy friend a stern look. “Steve will be offended I’ve picked you as his replacement.”

The small goat bleated at him as if in protest. 

“Yeah, yeah. At least you’re better company than Sam.”

Bucky chuckled, picturing what the other man’s expression would look like if he’d heard that. He and Sam still bickered over stupid, insignificant things, but their dynamic had developed over the last weeks. Bucky trusted him now. Sam was one of the good guys—the genuine do-gooders. There was very little to fault him for. It didn’t mean they were _friends_ , though. They had a lot of enmities to sort through before they could affix that label to their relationship.

_I wonder whose fault that is,_ said a voice in his head.

Bucky jumped, and Stevie startled. 

“Go away,” he said, a growl in his voice. “You’re not real.”

_You don’t mean that. If I’m not real, then all those bad things you’ve done...whose fault are they? Weren’t you looking for someone else to blame?_

Bucky clenched his teeth. “I’ve accepted my responsibility.”

_That’s not what the world thinks. All they see is a coward who’s run away. And the worst part is you know they’re right. How much longer are you going to keep up this farce? Relinquish control already. You can’t win against me._

Bucky hugged Stevie closer to his body. He tried thinking of something else, something to keep his thoughts from drifting to the voice in his head: the Winter Soldier.

_You can’t tune me out._

As if sensing his despair, Stevie stood and tongued, wet and rough, at Bucky’s cheek. He pushed the animal’s head away. 

“I appreciate the thought,” Bucky said. The gesture not so much.

_Pay attention!_

Bucky’s fingers inched nervously toward the cell in his pocket.   
“I wonder what Nat is up to. She hasn’t returned my call.”

Natasha was in Moscow on a tip about the Red Book. She was supposed to have checked in with him a day ago. Bucky had left her three coded messages in the last twelve hours, and he was beginning to worry. What if she’d been captured, tortured…killed?

And all for what?

The grim truth was that neither knew who had the book, but that someone had eluded S.H.I.E.L.D and Nat in the past, so they weren’t to be trifled with. Whoever it was, they knew what it could do and were probably hoping to put it to use. 

_What are you so afraid of anyway?_

His finger hovered over Nat’s contact. He was debating whether or not to call her for the fourth time when the cell rang on its own. The ID was blocked, but there were only a handful of people who knew his number. Worst case scenario it was a telemarketer, but according to Sam, he had an exceptionally morbid talent for getting rid of those.

“Hello?”

“I don’t have much time, so listen up.” It was Nat, and she sounded rushed.

Relief washed over Bucky until the words sunk in. He sat up straight. “What’s wrong, where are you?”

“Relax,” she chided. “I’m on my way back, but I crossed hairs with some very dubious traders in Moscow, and it’s possible they’re screening my calls.”

“Why would you dial my number!”

“Shhh. I said to relax, didn’t I? I set them off my trail for a little bit. I have approximately…four minutes and thirteen seconds before they are able to tap this line.”

“By all means, take your time,” Bucky said.

If he had super hearing, he would’ve heard the sound of Nat’s eyes rolling to the back of her head. “I had my sight locked on the book, James.”

That got Bucky’s attention. 

“It was almost within my reach, but I was ambushed and the next thing I knew, it was gone. That’s the bad news. The good news is, I think I know who has it, and how I can get it back. Do you think you can hold out for another week?”

“A week?” Bucky was on his feet now, pacing. “I can’t wait that long.”

“Well, I’m trying my best here, but I’m a one-woman show, and you expressly forbade me from involving Steve or anyone else. Cut me some slack.”

Bucky crushed his lower lip between his teeth. He needed that book, and fast. The Soldier was restless, and Bucky’s biggest fear was that there wouldn’t be any _Bucky_ left by the time they did find the book. Just a week ago, he’d been about to lash out at Shuri during a physical check-up. It happened sporadically as if someone had turned on a light switch in his head, and then just as rapidly, shut it off. 

If he had regressed to the point of putting others at risk, he had to start making some serious choices. He couldn’t just sit back and watch as his friends put their lives on the line for him. It was high time he made the sacrifice play.

_What are you thinking?_

“Nat,” Bucky said, planting his feet firm on the dirt. “Get here as soon as you can. I can't wait any longer.”

“James,” Natasha said softly. “I know what you’re thinking. They’re not going to let you leave with me. Steve said—“

“Steve isn’t my handler,” Bucky interjected. “If I agreed to not leave Wakanda, it was so that I could get better, but I’m not. I know it, Shuri knows it, and I know you do too. We can’t keep pretending. The book needs to be destroyed, and I—“

“You what?”

“Never mind. Just get here. You don’t have a lot of time left.”

There was a brief silence on the other line, and then Natasha said: “Ok. See you soon.”

*

Natasha arrived just before sundown; she had flown the plane herself and was alone. Bucky was waiting against a beam in the hangar when she deplaned. 

She was disheveled. Her vest had torn in some places, and there was a haphazard stitch job on her temple where something had gashed her cleanly. 

“Wipe that frown off your face,” she said, smirking. “It looks worse than it is.”

“Are you sure?” He said, pushing off the wall and walking closer to inspect her.

“What do you take me for? I left at least a dozen guys in far worse conditions.”

Bucky knew he had to be satisfied with that, but he couldn’t shake off the shame that he felt for letting her go on _his_ mission alone. He comforted himself with the knowledge that Nat was every bit as good as she boasted. What was there to worry about?

“So, you’re gonna fill me in on what you found?”

Natasha nodded lazily and stretched out her arms to crack the stiffness out of them. “But first, some lunch.”

Without preamble, they went to the kitchens to find something to fill her stomach. Bucky wasn’t hungry, but he grabbed a little bit of the leftovers from lunch so Nat wouldn’t feel awkward eating alone. She scoffed at his small portion and offered him some of her braised lamb, but he was content with his vegetable pilau.

After they finished and she was sated, she told him all she knew and how after Hydra’s fall, there’d been a man who paid someone to break into one of the abandoned facilities and steal the book. His name was Baron Zemo.

“Zemo? Isn’t that the guy in S.H.I.E.L.D custody? What does he want the book for?”

Natasha seemed surprised that he’d heard the name before. “Well, what we do know is that he tried to frame you for a murder you didn’t commit, and then he hired a team of specialists to recover a book rumored to hold the secrets to your programming. For some reason, he wants to take you out, and he seems desperate to do it. Any idea what he could gain from that?”

The question perturbed him greatly. He hadn’t considered that there might be people out there wanting to draw the Soldier out of him forcefully. All this time, his greatest fear had been that the Soldier would unexpectedly manifest on his own. Now he didn’t just have to contend with his sadist alter ego, but with a mysterious new enemy.

“The Soldier was a prolific killer, nearly invisible, too,” he said, swallowing thickly. “We saw to what extent the Russians were willing to go for one of their own. Given the opportunity, I can’t imagine anyone turning down such a prize.” 

He scowled. He didn’t like referring to the Soldier as anything other than an assassin. To glorify what he was went against all that Bucky had fought so hard to regain, namely his mind’s clarity and self-worth. Bucky was a person, real, tangible, breathing. The Soldier was a manufactured tool, a fragment of his broken spirit. Nothing more. 

_You’re going to hurt my feelings, Jimmy._

Natasha eyed him carefully, her hand coming to rest on his arm. “And you don’t think this has anything to do with Steve?”

Steve?

What could—

Bucky tensed. _Of course._ It was so simple. 

He turned to Natasha, animated.

“The first time I was captured by Hydra— in the ’40s––a scientist called Zola told me that Red Skull had sought me out on purpose. I don’t know how, but through the haze of drugs and fatigue, I realized they needed something from me and that whatever it was, I was the only person who could give it to them.”

Natasha turned in her chair to face him. She prodded him on with a look.

“Isn’t it obvious?” Bucky got to his feet and started to pace excitedly like he’d cracked open a case. “I was their greatest enemy’s closest friend. A weakness,” he explained. “It was no mistake that Hydra found me after I fell from the train. I was valuable to them. A means to an end.”

He paused to let Natasha absorb the words.

Everything was finally falling into place—making sense. He was still worried, but it felt like a load had been taken off his shoulders. At the very least, he had an idea what he was contending with. But then something else dawned on him.

“If what you say is true, that someone wants to use me to get to Steve, then things are worse than I feared.”

“Why?”

Bucky sat back down. “ A bunch of Hydra wannabes coming after me? Fine. But now that I know Steve is involved—that he’s in danger— that’s it. That's where I draw the line.”

If someone had a bone to pick with Steve, they’d have to go through Bucky Barnes first. It was a promise.

Natasha seemed oddly satisfied with his answer. 

“That makes two of us.”

Bucky smiled at her. He felt assured that a multi-talented super spy assassin like the Black Widow was on his side. That _Natasha_ was on his side. She wouldn’t hesitate to start a vendetta against Bucky’s enemies for Steve’s sake if he needed her to. No, she’d do it without him having to ask. She loved Steve.

“So, I have a plan.”

*

Bucky proposed to leave that night after everyone went to bed. The Dora Milaje would still be guarding the palace so Bucky would have to stealthily sneak out to rendezvous with Nat at the hangar, where they’d board the jet and set course for New York. It was a bold, and quite frankly _stupid_ idea. Everyone who wanted Bucky’s head on a pike was there: the U.S. government, the international police, Stark, and Zemo. But if there was a chance of recovering the book, any at all, he needed to nip this little problem in the bud. Baron Zemo would talk. Bucky could make him. He was only a man, after all. 

_Yes, men are frail and weak. Let me have a go at it._

No, Bucky answered back in his head, firm.

The Soldier growled but didn’t say more.

The Soldier. He hadn’t yet uncovered what it was he wanted. At times he seemed as eager to leave Wakanda, but Bucky doubted that he wanted the book destroyed as much as he did. It was insurance. Claiming it was the Soldier’s best chance at taking over again. If he was planning on hijacking the operation and using the book himself, Bucky was in trouble. He wouldn’t be able to go anywhere near it knowing that his own body might betray him. Then what was he doing this for? Natasha could get the information they needed without him there, and he couldn’t go with her to retrieve it anyway, so what was the point?

_The point is,_ the Soldier said mockingly, _that you’re worthless and impotent. Stop relying on a woman to do the job you should have already finished. It’s pathetic._

Bucky clenched his fist. _Stop putting words in my mou—head.”_

_Or what? You’ll strangle me with that new arm of yours? I’d like to give it a little whirl myself._

“Just shut up,” he growled, not realizing he’d spoken aloud. Natasha looked at him, concerned.

“Sorry,” he mumbled, flustered... “I was just—that was…”

“James,” Natasha said, squaring to face him. “Is everything alright?”

Bucky’s lips were sealed. He wanted to tell her about the Soldier; he knew she’d understand. But he also knew she was just as likely to tell Steve about it. Natasha was good at secrecy, but some secrets couldn’t stay secrets for long, and this was the kind she’d fret over until it consumed her.

“Just fine.”

She didn’t look convinced.

“So, we’re set then?” He asked, trying to change the subject. 

With a resigned sigh, she nodded.

“I’ve been keeping tabs on the Dora Milaje shifts,” he continued. “The guest hall isn’t as guarded as it used to be, there hasn’t been a need for it, so I may be able to sneak as far as the second floor before I have to find an alternate route.”

Natasha eyed him closely. The furrow between her brows hadn’t smoothened out. “Are you sure this is what you want? Steve won’t be happy. He’ll come looking for us eventually.”

Bucky was resolute. “I’m sure. Besides, we might already be inside S.H.I.E.L.D by the time someone realizes we’ve gone and decides to tell Steve.”

“Do I need to remind you that Steve keeps contact with Agent Coulson, the director of the same organization whose base you intend to infiltrate? You think he’s not above calling in favors?”

Bucky’s shoulders sagged. “I hadn’t thought about that.”

“Yeah, well, that’s why I’m here. To do the thinking for you.”

Bucky ran through his plan again, seeing now the flaws that he’d overlooked. He couldn’t see an immediate solution, and time was not on their side. For now, their priority would have to be escaping at all. They’d make up a concrete plan later when they were safe.

“We’ll meet in the hangar tonight. It has to be tonight,” he emphasized. “It’s the only way.”

Natasha opened her mouth to speak, but the words that broke the silence were not hers. 

“Hey, Barnes,” said a voice. 

Bucky and Natasha jumped in their seats. 

“I was just—oh! I didn’t know you had company.” 

They turned to face the door and saw Shuri standing under the doorway, frozen like a deer in headlights. “My brother sent me to tell you that Captain Rogers called. He’ll be arriving tomorrow morning.”

Bucky side-eyed Natasha, nervous. In his periphery, he saw her put on a strained smile. 

“Thank you for telling me,” he told Shuri. 

Shuri looked between them, pausing on Bucky for a moment, and Bucky was worried she’d caught onto them, but she only shrugged and walked away.

When she was gone, Natasha looked back at him. “Tonight, then,” she confirmed.

It has to be, Bucky thought. It was their last chance.

*

Hours passed, and Bucky and Natasha tried to play it cool. They carried on with their regular routines to not attract suspicions, save for the discreet looks they gave each other when no one was looking. It was a good thing Bucky had the day off from farm work so he wouldn’t have to invent some unbelievable excuse to leave early. That left him with enough time to prepare.

When dusk fell, Bucky raced back to his room, grabbed his favorite knife, and stowed it away on a sheath concealed in his boot. He changed out of his casual clothes and into a mission-ready suit: cargo pants and a protective jacket with one of the sleeves cut off for the metal arm to poke through. Natasha would supply him with weapons once they were on the jet, so he left his ammunition behind. The last thing he needed was for someone to stop him on his way to the hangar and ask him where he was off to with an M249 SAW rifle slung over his back. More importantly, he was worried about Shuri. Earlier, she’d walked in on his and Nat’s conversation just as he was divulging their intentions for tonight, and he didn’t know if she’d overheard. Could she have told someone? Could the Dora Milaje actually be waiting in the wings, ready to intercept him? He needed to tread carefully.

Bucky opened his room door and peered into the hall to make sure nobody was in sight. When the coast was clear, he crept to where the corner rounded and pressed his back flat against the gold-plated wall. He used a small mirror from his tool belt to check around for any guards. A Dora Milaje stood by the elevator, her back to him. Bucky dashed to the opposite end and slipped inside the stairwell. He descended several staircases to floor B1, the underground garage—the hangar—where he and Natasha had agreed to meet.

Before he could reach the knob, the stairwell door opened and Bucky flew back, raising his arms defensively. He wasn’t aiming to hurt anyone, but he would defend himself if it came down to it, and he wasn’t above incapacitating someone if they got in his way, either.

A boot slipped between the open crack, and then a whole leg, and soon Bucky was staring at the disappointed face of Steve Rogers. Steve stepped forward, letting the door close behind him with a click. 

“Buck, what’s the meaning of this?”

Bucky’s mouth opened and closed reflexively. 

Then the door opened again, and a flustered Natasha emerged. “I’m sorry, James. I tried to ward him off, but he knew.”

Bucky’s eyes flitted to Steve again. “Was it Shuri?”

“Sam, actually,” Steve said, in the tone of voice he used when his men messed up.

Bucky hadn’t seen that one coming.

“The walls have eyes, Buck,” Steve said. Bucky must have looked confused because he elaborated. “Sam has been helping T’Challa with security, and he saw you and Nat acting strangely from the monitors. I rushed back as soon as he informed me.”

Bucky cursed internally. He wasn’t going to let Sam off the hook. Once he had taken care of Zemo and the book, he’d get his payback. Sam’s signed Marvin Gaye vinyls were looking like prime hostages.

“I can explain,” Bucky said.

“You’d better.”

_Your boy is formidable_ , said the Winter Soldier. _I didn’t think he’d catch onto you this soon._

Bucky’s metallic fingers twitched. He looked down at his hand, awe-struck. What the—

“I’m waiting,” Steve said, drawing his attention back to him. His arms were crossed over his broad chest. Behind him, Natasha looked even smaller than usual.

“We were—I was—” He couldn't speak; he felt ridiculous.

“We were going to break into S.H.I.E.L.D,” Natasha said, saving Bucky from further embarrassment, though the shame he now felt was hardly preferable.

“WHAT?” Steve swiveled around to face her.

Bucky threw Natasha a reproachful look. She shrugged, unapologetic.

“There’s a book I need, and a prisoner in S.H.I.E.L.D’s custody is the only person who can tell us where it is,” he said.

“What kind of book?”

Steve looked torn between glaring at Natasha or Bucky.

“The Winter Soldier’s,” Bucky explained, deflated. He’d been hoping to avoid this part. “It contains information on the Soldier’s programming and his trigger words.”

An icy silence permeated the cramped stairwell. Bucky counted the seconds that passed.

“Why wait until now? How come you never told me? Has something happened?” Steve said, panic spewing from his lips like froth.

_Go on, tell him._

Bucky was absolutely _not_ going to tell Steve what the Soldier wanted him to admit. That he heard voices—one voice, anyway. 

“This is my battle,” he said instead. 

Steve’s eyebrows scrunched together.

“You have a lot on your plate already,” Natasha said, coming around to stand to the side, an equal distance from both men.

Steve pinched his eyes closed and rubbed the bridge of his nose with a thumb and index finger. “A little trust would have gone a long way. You didn’t have to sneak around me as if… as if _I_ were the bad guy.”

_Didn’t we?_

There is no _we_ , Bucky bit back.

“In any case, I can’t let you go. I spoke with Tony—tried to, anyway— and neither he nor the government will back off. It’s too dangerous for you to be anywhere near New York right now.”

_Give me the go, and I can knock him out unconscious for you. You can blame it on the programming later if it makes you feel better._

I am _not_ doing that, replied Bucky.

Steve stepped toward him and crowded him against the wall. “Let’s go back upstairs.”

Bucky swallowed thickly and glanced at Natasha, pleading. For what? He didn’t know. He felt cornered by Steve, the Soldier, fate— everything. 

“Steve, I think you should hear James out. This is important to him.”

“His safety is the most important thing, don’t you think? C’mon, Natasha. I trusted you to watch over him.”

Bucky looked accusatively at Nat.

She grimaced. “He’s not a child, Steve.”

“That’s beside the point,” he said, brushing her off.

“Is it?”

_He’s facing away. Now’s our chance._

Bucky watched, paralyzed, as Steve and Natasha argued. Steve was flushing, and it was clear how much their deception had ticked him off. Meanwhile, Natasha was standoffish. She wasn’t taking kindly to being accused of betraying Steve’s trust, much less being reprimanded for trying to help Bucky. They were both her friends. She shouldn’t have to choose between them.

Bucky’s head flooded with flashes of potential fallouts, none of which he was eager to stick around for. He needed to get out of there—to get to the jet. He started to scan the stairwell, to assess his distance from Steve and the force he would have to exert to shove him backward, preferably down the next flight of stairs— or two— so that he and Nat could buy some time. 

Suddenly, Steve turned around to face him and took him by the arm—the one made of flesh. His grip was relentless; it almost crushed his bones. He must not be aware of his force, Bucky thought.

“We’ll talk upstairs.”

Then, Bucky’s metal arm shot out on its own and closed around Steve’s neck. Steve’s eyes widened infinitesimally (as did Bucky’s) before The Soldier threw him down the stairs to Bucky’s left. Natasha watched, shock and concern battling on her face, but she came to her senses quickly and followed Bucky out the door.

They heard Steve’s groan as he made contact with the concrete below, but they didn’t dwell on it. The door closed behind them, muting all of the blond man’s pained noises, and there the jet was, in plain sight.

Bucky rushed onward first, climbing aboard as Natasha lingered at the mouth of the craft. He saw her look back at the stairwell, hesitant.

“You can stay if you want, but I’m going,” he said, short. He’d do this with or without her.

Natasha’s lips quirked down, but she followed suit. She didn’t say anything until the cargo door had shut closed. “What the hell was that, James?”

Bucky raised both arms to the level of his chest, palms up. They were shaking. He hadn’t noticed.

“I don’t know. It wasn’t––”

Natasha studied him, closing their distance to take his hands in hers. “James, it was the _Soldier_ , wasn’t it?” Her voice was low, bordering on empathetic.

Bucky almost sank to his knees and despaired. It was like a dam had been torn down inside his heart. 

“How long has he had control?”

“He doesn’t!” He tried to object. Then very softly, he amended: “Not all the time. This is only the second incident. But—”

He had to say it. He had to come clean. This way, at least Natasha would be prepared in case the Soldier decided to come out while they were on the mission. 

“His voice is in my head. Always. At first, I could ignore it, but he’s been getting louder and more devious, and I don’t know what to do, Nat. I _need_ to get that book.”

Natasha’s face hardened. She rushed to the cockpit and started the engine. “You will. Hurry, strap yourself in before—”

A loud crash interrupted her, and then there was a small explosion on the outside of the craft, which caused the cargo doors to fall open. An angry Steve stood beyond the demolished threshold, and behind him was Sam in his Falcon suit, hovering in mid-air.

“Shit,” Natasha said. She stepped away from the control panel and held her hands up. “Easy, fellas. Let’s work this out.”

“The time for talking has passed,” Sam said, and Steve’s eyes communicated all that needed to be known. There was no way he was going to let Bucky leave now.

He panicked. The need to get himself out swelled within Bucky, but he stayed rooted in his spot. In the back of his mind, the Soldier was asking to be given control, but Bucky knew if he did, he wouldn’t be able to guarantee Steve and Sam’s safety. The Soldier couldn’t be trusted. He wouldn’t run that risk.

He was just about decided to step down from the ship and go with them willingly when the Soldier chose to act out plans of his own.

Bucky’s metal arm reached for one of the semiautomatics perched on the wall of the craft, and he started firing at the two men against his will. It was as if he had been relegated to a bystander in his own consciousness. Since when did the Soldier have the strength to push him out? Had he been playing coy all along? Biding his time?

“Buck, stop!”

He couldn’t tell Steve he wasn’t able to, it would make things so much worse, so he pretended it was all his doing. Natasha might’ve suspected otherwise, but she took advantage of the distraction to shoot a stun gun at the Falcon, which caused him to topple onto the floor. Once he was immobilized, the Soldier felt confident advancing towards Steve, who was doing an excellent job of blocking the bullets with his shield. It didn’t seem the Soldier wanted to fatally injure him yet, but who knew for how long that would be true. If Steve gave the Soldier no other choice, would he still be as forgiving?

Frustrated by the barrage of ceaseless bullets, Steve charged at him. The Soldier responded with more aggression, which confirmed Bucky’s suspicions. The Soldier only cared about himself. He’d take them all down if he could, but he wasn’t stupid. He was outnumbered here.

When only a foot was between them, Steve spotted an opening in Bucky’s defense and swung his shield against the barrel to subvert the bullets. He rammed into Bucky’s stomach, and they both fell to the ground with a grunt. The weapon clattered away, and Steve ended up on top of the metal arm. He straddled Bucky, pinning both of his arms down, and bent down to speak into his ear. “Why are you acting like this?” The fear and concern that laced his voice was poison.

Bucky tried to smother the Soldier’s apparent distaste.

“I told you,” he said, bucking his hips up.

Steve pushed him back down. “You didn’t give a reason. What does it matter if someone has the book? You’re safe here.”

Bucky’s eyes narrowed at that, cold. Oh, he absolutely didn’t understand anything. Did Steve think that just because he had hidden him somewhere, no one would be able to find him? Touch him?

“Not safe,” he spat. “Sheltered.”

Steves hard gaze wavered. “I thought you were happy here. You looked so…“

Bucky swallowed. “I was.” 

“Then what’s changed?”

He wanted to laugh. 

_Tell him_ , the Soldier insisted. _Tell him you’re losing yourself to me. I want to see his broken expression when he realizes he’s on the cusp of losing you… again._

“No,” Bucky rasped, mustering up all his strength to roll them over. When Steve was beneath him, vulnerable, the Soldier roused again. The metal hand latched itself onto Steve’s neck and squeezed. Bucky’s eyes zeroed in on the finger-shaped indents on the man’s pale skin.

“James!” He heard Natasha’s voice in the background. “Let go of him.”

Bucky looked up. Sam was tied up and laying on his side. His eyes were wide with disbelief.

“You don’t want to do this, man,” he implored.

Bucky looked down at Steve’s reddened face and watched the color deepen. 

He could feel the Soldier’s ecstasy rotting his bones. _C’mon, let it all out_ , the Soldier thought, his voice a sneer. 

Steve’s shaking hands tried to undo the vice grip of Bucky’s fingers on him, but he was weak.

Hands landed on Bucky’s shoulder and tried to pry him away. Natasha’s.

When the fight in Steve dampened, and his eyes rolled to the back of his head, Bucky felt the blond man’s body start to collapse beneath him— to cave in as he expelled all of his breath. 

The part of Bucky that was conscious started to panic. “No, no no no!” He tried to tear himself away, but the Soldier was unrelenting. Bucky concentrated on caging the Soldier in again, to get back the control of his arm. Slowly, the grip loosened, and the hand opened like blood rose in bloom. The Soldier cried out in anger.

_I almost had him finished!_

Bucky scrambled onto his feet as Natasha fell to Steve’s side and began to check for a pulse. Bucky looked down at his hands, terrorized. He saw the Soldier do this, and he’d done nothing but let it happen.

Steve was pale and motionless. He looked…dead.

No. He couldn’t be—

“He’s breathing,” Natasha said to him, eyes growing accusative as Bucky did nothing but stare.

Then remorse hit him with the force of a collapsing star. Without thinking, he turned on his heel, ran to the stairwell, and climbed back up to the surface floors. 

He was breathless, but he didn’t stop. His mind was still reeling from the events of moments ago.

He’d hurt the one person who never would’ve laid a hand on him. Had almost killed him.

_Not the first time_

Bucky shuddered and fell on his knees. 

No, not the first time, but this wasn’t like before—like on the helicarrier when he’d been the repressed ego. This time, he’d been an inexcusable accomplice of the Soldier’s violence. He’d been an active participant, no matter what anyone else might want to believe. Poor, naive Steve would be the first to tell him it wasn’t his fault.

There was no going after the book now, he realized distantly. How could he, in this state?

There was only one course of action to take now. One that would keep him far away from Steve. One that would ensure he’d never be able to hurt him again.

He needed to find Shuri.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter was running too long so I decided to split it into two parts. The second part will be posted in a couple of days. Then there will be an epilogue, and that's it, folks!


	12. Back-Stitch (Part 2)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Finally.

 

A pair of Dora Milaje tried to pull Bucky back as he pounded on Shuri’s door. His heart beat fast in his chest, and his hand was clammy; adrenaline was still pumping through him.

“Mr. Barnes, step away,” one of them demanded, trying to hold onto his flesh arm.

“If you do not, we will have no choice but to incapacitate you,” said the other.

Bucky wanted to throw them off him, but he recognized his impertinence on time and finally moved back to lean his forehead against the opposite wall. His palms pressed to the cold, flat surface. After taking a couple of deep breaths, he turned back around and dragged a hand down his face.

One of the Dora Milage now stood protectively in front of the princess’ room, while the other pointed her spear at Bucky’s neck. It was a show—a reminder of their power and the authority they had to do with him what they wished. So long as they were acting in defense of the princess, they could get away with anything. Bucky wasn't exactly respectful of the house rules at the moment, so really, if anything happened, it’d be because he had provoked them.

That was the least of his worries.

He kept thinking about Steve, first and foremost, and the state in which he had left him. Then about the Soldier and the book. Fear. That’s what tied all of those threads together. The fear of failure and of immediate retribution. Then there was the fear of the unknown. What would he lose with chasing after phantoms and trying to repress the devil on his shoulder? What would he become after all was said and done? 

He looked down at his hands. The shaking flesh hand was unsteady and vulnerable; the metal one was clenched and unyielding.

He could feel the Soldier trying to wrap himself around it—trying to _infuse_ himself with it—solder the tiny gold wires of the prosthetic with the poisonous tendrils of his alter’s consciousness. Bucky could hold him back, for now, but falling prey to any distractions like the one from before would result in him leaving the door wide open for another forced invasion.

If he could shut himself off— shut them both off— the Soldier wouldn’t be able to manifest in any form. He could only pose a threat so long as Bucky’s was in full commission. He was a parasite: unable to survive without a functioning body to control.

Shuri’s room opened with a drawn-out creak, and Bucky squared his shoulders to face her.

She was wearing athletic pants and a t-shirt, but the dark circles under her eyes were proof that she’d just awoken.

“What is all the commotion?” 

The guard standing between Bucky and Shuri stepped aside to give her view of him, and Shuri’s eyes widened, first inquisitively and then with worry as she took him in.

“What happened?”

Bucky’s swallowed, dry and painful. “I need your help.”

*

Bucky explained everything on their way to the lab. The two guards that had tried to apprehend him before refused to leave the princess’ side.

He told Shuri about the Soldier, the book, and what had transgressed in the hangar just a quarter hour earlier.

Shuri’s lips turned downward.

“I need to make it stop,” he told her. 

She looked at him, a hesitant twinkle in her otherwise understanding eyes. Out of everyone, she knew his condition best. She was his friend, but she’d also been his physician and therapist these past few months. He knew she had his best and unbiased interest at heart. Not like Natasha, or Sam, and as much as it pained him to admit it, not Steve, either.

Steve was...his best friend. His partner, in all the ways that counted. But they’d been torn apart for years and hadn’t been able to spend quality time together as of late. With so much to worry about, Steve couldn’t get the full scope of his progress, his regressions, or share in all of his joyous and sorrowful moments.

He wanted to be there for Bucky, to protect him, but how could he? He didn’t even know what he should be protecting him from. He’d never imagine that there could be somebody more threatening to Bucky’s well-being than Stark or the government, nor that that menace was living in Bucky’s very own skin.

“I’ve made up my mind to go under,” Bucky said, the words a caress against the agitated atmosphere. 

Shuri looked at him as if he had grown a second metal arm. “I know I mentioned this as an option, but I never thought it’d seriously cross your mind,” she said. “Not without exhausting all other possibilities first.” 

Bucky withheld a groan. “I know. But the circumstances have changed, and I am decided. _Please_ ,” he begged, “don’t let him stop me.” 

He didn’t have to say the name for her to know who he meant.

Shuri nodded, but her eyes remained guarded. She didn’t seem content with his decision, but ultimately it wasn’t hers to make. “O-okay.”

*

It wasn’t long before Steve came looking for him. He was haggard, and his voice was wrecked, but not even his near-death experience at the hands of the Soldier had deterred him from seeking Bucky out. At this point, Bucky was sure nothing would.

“You have to let me inside!” His booming voice carried through the door. 

Bucky was seated on an examination table while Shuri inputted some final health assessments into her records. Things like overall organ function, his blood pressure, and oxygen levels. Data on the arm as well.

There was a low exchange of words outside the door, and Bucky figured it was T’Challa trying to talk some sense into Steve. There was a female voice too, Natasha’s perhaps.

Whatever she was telling him, he wouldn’t hear it, though.

“Buck!” Came the shouts again. “Bucky, please, open the door. Don’t go through with this! Let’s talk.”

Bucky tried to ignore the way Steve’s voice cracked at the end. He tried to ignore the churning of his gut, too.

“You’re almost set,” Shuri told him, a grimace on her face.

Bucky’s eyes dropped to the floor. “I’m sorry,” he said, low.

She didn’t say anything. This all probably wasn’t easy for her, either. She had invested an emotional stake in him as a friend, and the guilt he felt was compounded by the fact that he’d sprung it upon her so suddenly.

“I’m not a mind reader,” he told her, pondering her expression.

For a moment, she made no sound except for that of a deep sigh, which punctured the silence around them.

“You’re a jackass,” she said.

Bucky nodded as if he hadn’t expected any other response. “I’m not trying to be.”

Whatever restraint Shuri had, broke. Wordlessly, she slammed the tablet she was holding down on the table with a force that would’ve broken the device had it not been a Wakandan design.

“Are you upset because I asked this of you?” 

“No,” she said, clipped. “I’m furious for Captain Rogers.”

Bucky’s shoulders slumped. “You’re on his side.”

He should have known. First Natasha, and now Shuri. It was high time he accepted that he’d always be the second choice. Especially when put in opposition to Steve, who was so blinding that Bucky disintegrated in his shadow.

“I’m on _your_ side,” she said as if it was he who deserved to be accused and not her. “But this—what this is going to do to him—isn’t fair at all. If it were my brother making this choice, I’d never forgive him.”

“I’m not doing this because I want to,” he said, puffing out his chest. “I’m trying to protect him. Protect _everyone_.”

Shuri shook her head. “You’re not putting yourself in his shoes.” 

Her gaze fell on him, piercing, in spite of her young age. “How many times have you both been torn apart? How many times were you able to properly say goodbye? I’ve got internet and books. I know your history. You have never been allowed to be together for more than five minutes before one of you got snatched away. Are you going to let it be your fault this time when Captain Rogers suffers?”

It was as if she’d twisted a knife inside of him. 

He hadn’t thought about it, that it was always him leaving Steve behind and not the other way around. He tried to imagine how he’d feel if their places were swapped. That is was Steve who had been torn from him time and time again. Would he have been able to keep himself together like Steve had? He thought back to the war, to all those desperate letters he penned and never got to send because he hadn’t known where Steve was. He remembered the agony, the sleepless nights, the hair-pulling anxiety attacks. 

At least Bucky had been brainwashed and couldn’t remember knowing any better. For Steve, every separation must have been like someone tore open his chest and ripped out his heart. Could Bucky bear that kind of hurt? That many times?

The answer was simple. He could not.

“Talk to him,” she said, patting his hand. “You owe it to him. Besides, wouldn’t you like to be at peace knowing that your friend allowed you the dignity of your own choice?”

She was right. Shuri was always right.

As much as he needed to do this for himself, it mattered to him that Steve would also be okay. He had no right to be selfish in this. Not when his and Steve’s fates had become so inextricably joined.

“You’re too smart, you know that?” He said, offering her a smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes.

Shuri shrugged and stepped away from the table. She gestured to the door with a look that seemed to ask all the essential questions.

Bucky inhaled deeply, preparing himself. “Okay,” he said. “Let him in.”

Shuri regarded him warmly. When she opened the door, Steve tried to shove his way past T’Challa, but with the Black Panther’s strength and the Dora Milaje’s combined, he wasn’t able to get through the human barricade.

“Buck!”

“It’s alright, brother. Let him through.”

Everyone seemed to collectively ease at the words, even T’Challa, who did as she said.

When Steve was inside the laboratory, eyes wet and searching, Shuri closed the door behind her. 

Bucky couldn’t meet Steve’s gaze, not only for the shame of having hurt him in the hangar but because of the almost farewell that now weighed heavily on his conscience. If not for Shuri, he might not have seen how close he’d been to leave Steve for the fourth time. The guy had been traumatized enough.

“Bucky,” Steve said, rushing past blocks of machinery and tables full of equipment to pull Bucky down from the examination table. “Buck,” he said again, leading the shorter man into his massive arms. 

Bucky’s hands stayed limp at his sides, but his face buried reflexively in the crook of the taller man’s neck like it belonged there. He registered the red bruises from their scuffle earlier, and regret gripped him.

“I’m sorry,” the blond man said, and Bucky frowned. 

“I’m the one who should apologize.”

Steve only held onto him tighter. As they stood there, relishing their closeness, Bucky couldn’t bring himself to slip his hands around Steve’s waist, though he wanted to.

“Tell me everything,” Steve said. The words were strained but sincere. “I’m listening. Just—don’t run away again.”

It was more a plea than an accusation. Nonetheless, it stung Bucky deeply in his core. 

He nodded gingerly before stepping back, but the other man didn’t let him. With a huff, Bucky wedged his real hand between their bodies to lay a flat palm against Steve’s chest. He pushed against the hard muscle and Steve relented. 

Despite himself, Bucky was briefly overcome by the loss of his nicely carved out place in Steve’s embrace. 

Steve noticed his hesitance. His eyes raked over Bucky’s face before landing firmly on his mouth. Bucky wet his lips, suddenly realizing how dry they were.

As if he’d come to a decision, Steve’s grip tightened around him again, and Bucky went with it this time—pressed himself closer. There were certain things he just couldn’t bring himself to fight against. This was one of them.

“I was out of options,” he blurted. He hadn’t wanted to make excuses or justify himself, but it wasn’t just Steve’s lack of presence that had gotten between them. His own lack of communication had also caused them many problems.

Steve’s eyes rounded slightly. He opened his mouth to speak, but Bucky didn't give him a chance.

“The Soldier has been vying for dominance,” he said, averting his gaze. “And I know he intends to hurt you and the others. Getting the book changes nothing, I know that, but it would’ve eased my mind to know that I was the only one on who the Soldier’s emergence depended. At least it wouldn’t have been a stranger with ulterior motives.”

Steve’s eyebrows drew together. “We can still get the book, Buck.”  
“It’s too late for that,” Bucky said, leaning his forehead on Steve’s shoulder, defeated. “Shuri’s developing something that could remove the last vestiges of Hydra’s brainwashing—that will lock the Soldier away for good, but it’s going to take time. Time is something I don’t exactly have.” He peered up at Steve’s face. “Living like this…it’s tiring, Steve. The uncertainty—it’ll kill me before the Soldier gets a chance to.”

“Bucky—“

“Let me finish.” Bucky insisted.

Steve nodded reluctantly. 

“Shuri said…if you’re really my friend, you’ll respect my decision. I need you to trust me, and I need to be sure that when I go, you won’t be left in a dark place like all those times before. You have to know that I’ll be here, just a machine away and that it won’t be forever.”

Steve’s intake of breath ran like a shudder through him. “Your trust in Shuri’s abilities is unwavering?”

Bucky understood Steve’s reservations, but he also knew what was in Steve’s heart, and that he’d concede him almost anything. He just hoped this was one of those things.

“She’s really good at what she does.” There was no other justification needed.

Bucky felt his body temperature drop a few degrees as a silence slithered between them.

“Then I’ll be here when you wake up,” Steve said, with the confidence of a captain. 

_He’s lying._

Bucky scrutinized him to probe the veracity of his word. When he found nothing contestable in Steve’s blue eyes, he cupped the taller man’s face and brought him down to his lips.

“Thank you,” he said, and in spite of his better judgment, kissed the corner of Steve’s mouth. 

The blond man let out a small, surprised gasp, and Bucky threw caution to the wind. He pressed his lips flush against Steve’s. Confidence flowed in his veins.

For a moment, it seemed as though Steve had been stunned into silence. He was rigid, and his hold on Bucky lost its dominance. 

He opened his eyes to read Steve’s reaction. Had he overstepped his bounds?

Worry started to creep down his chest until Steve murmured a half-hearted expletive and kissed him back. He grabbed Bucky by the shoulders and held him again, desperate. 

Bucky’s eyes fluttered closed. He lost himself in the way Steve’s mouth moved, all strength and softness. How long had Steve wanted to do this? Bucky knew. He’d known since he read the letters Natasha brought him. 

An entire lifetime. 

Bucky thought that it had been the same for him, no matter how vehemently his younger self would’ve denied it. Bucky Barnes had always been in love with his best friend— his Steve. Looking back, it was almost painful how obvious they’d both felt. Perhaps they’d been the only two idiots who never realized it.

*

Steve broke the kiss as if he’d been pricked by a thorn, and turned away roughly. “Bucky, I’m sorry—“

Bucky only smiled.

“Steve, really…”

“I shouldn’t have kissed you, I shouldn’t have—“ His hands flew to his head, pulling slightly at his blond locks.

“Hey,” Bucky said, louder. He grabbed Steve’s forearm to turn him back around. “I wanted you to kiss me.”

Confusion swirled in Steve’s eyes.

“Why?”

Bucky ran his fingers through his dark hair, unsure if the exasperation he suddenly felt was because of Steve’s obliviousness, or from his own long-inhibited anger. “Steve…you’re so stupid.”

Steve chuckled sardonically.

Bucky gave him an incredulous look before crowding him against a machine. “” I _like_ you, Steve,” he said, firm. “I like you so much that if it weren’t for you, I might’ve already put a bullet in my head.”

He meant it as a joke, but Steve flinched at the words and grimaced. A menacing glint appeared in his eye. “Don’t ever say that again. I don’t want you to even think it.”

“Relax, it’s just a figure of speech.” He said, trying to comfort him—to undo the damage of his words.

_Liars. The both of you._

Bucky pushed the voice away and reached up to press a kiss to Steve’s cheek. The taller man melted against his touch. He could feel the doubts dissolving, too, as Steve’s mouth inched a fraction towards his.

Steve swallowed. “I thought you were straight,” he murmured.

Bucky chuckled darkly. “Well, if I haven’t already made it clear, I’m not.”

Steve’s eyes ran over his face. It seemed he wanted to believe what Bucky was saying, but was having a hard time doing so. Bucky didn’t blame him. He, too, remembered all those times he had spurned Steve out of fear—tried to widen the divide between them so that certain lines of their relationship could not be crossed.

“Since when?” 

Bucky thought the suspicion in his voice was endearing.

“Does it matter?”

“We’ve always been close, but never like this, so forgive me if I don’t want to get my hopes up.” There was an insistence in his voice, and Bucky wondered if he was trying to convince himself of something. Maybe he hoped there’d always been a glimmer of something deeper between them. He wasn’t wrong.

“This close?” Bucky said, passing his tongue along the seam of Steve’s lips. He felt Steve press his lips into a tight line to prevent the wet muscle from probing further. 

His self-restraint was inhuman.

“I’m serious, Buck,” he mumbled. “Is this what you want? You’re not just pitying me?”

He finally took mercy on Steve and gave him back some space. “Now why would I do that?” 

Steve shrugged. “I thought maybe you had remembered things from the ‘40s. Some letters… I don’t know.” He rubbed the back of his neck. “You made it abundantly clear that you didn’t see me as more than a friend. I don’t want you to be confused, or feel like you owe me—”

“I’m not, and I don’t,” Bucky said, defensive. “The old Bucky Barnes was a coward who couldn’t admit to himself what was so plain to see. I'm finally honest with myself, is that so wrong?”

Steve’s face lit up, expectant. “About what?”

The competitive part of Bucky reared its head— wanted to take it all back. He knew what Steve was doing. He wanted Bucky to declare his love for him as if speaking the words would make what he felt more real. More true. Luckily for him, Bucky Barnes could be very accommodating, and he loved Steve too much to deny him this.

“That he desired Steven Grant Rogers more than words could say,” he said, interlocking their fingers. “That it was that little, 5’4” kid he wanted to take dancing every night. That he wanted to hold him in his arms forever, the most beautiful soul he’d ever known, and that he— _I_ — wanted to call him _mine_.”

His eyes followed the bob of Steve’s Adam’s apple, up his neck, to his sparkling eyes. They were thinly veiled by something he could not put his finger on.

“Is it too late?” He said, a tremor in his voice. He was suddenly terrified of the answer he’d receive. Steve had accepted Bucky’s affections on one or two occasions, only to in the next avoid them altogether. Maybe he wasn’t sure of his own feelings. Perhaps they had changed, just like his. Or was Bucky reading too much into it?

A flurry of emotions flashed across Steve’s face. Then with renewed fervor, he brought their clasped hands to his mouth and pressed a small kiss to Bucky’s knuckles.   
“Never.” His voice cracked with emotion. “ I’ve never stopped waiting.”

Warmth fluttered inside Bucky. “I know,” he said. “I know.”

Bucky weaved his fingers through Steve’s hair and brought his mouth down to his. He didn’t mean for the kiss to be apologetic, but he felt sorry—sorry that they could have it all, right then, but that they’d have to wait until Bucky got better, and who knew how far into the future that would be. If ever. 

“You’re not going to change your mind, are you?” Steve said when they split for air. Sadness laced his tone and yet hope had found a home in his baby blues. 

Bucky knew what he meant, and he wished he could give him the answer he wanted to hear, but that just wasn’t in their cards. Right now was the moment of calm—a reprieve from a long, grueling storm—but it was temporary, as all things were. 

He swallowed. “I’m not.”

Steve’s face fell, and the expression he made was as heartbreaking as Bucky imagined it would be.

“It’s alright. I understand.”

_Fools._

Bucky cupped his face. He didn’t say anything. Just held him.

This moment, it would have to suffice for now. 

*

It was a sunny day when Bucky was to go into cryostasis. Steve was beside him the entire time he was prepped. If Bucky wanted to reach out and take his hand, he could, and he did, for as long as he was allowed to when neither Shuri or her assistants were sticking wires to him or prodding at him with their tools. 

Bucky and Steve didn’t say much, they’d had all of the night before and a couple of days to prepare themselves for what both hoped would be their last farewell. Longing singed the air between them, but because neither wanted to revisit the conversations of nights before, they maintained their stoic, unperturbed facades. 

“I’m going to do a last check on the machine,” Shuri said when she had finished with him. “It shouldn’t take long.”

And it was said with a tenderness meant to remind them that this was all the time they would have for now and that Shuri would try her best to prolong the inevitable for as long as was appropriate. Her empathy and professionalism were two of the things Bucky had always loved most about her, and he’d never been more grateful for them until now. 

Steve looked down as he played with one of Bucky’s fingers. His lashes cast shadows on his cheekbones, and Bucky was captivated by their volume—the dark fan of fibers made a pretty contrast against his pale, freckled skin.

“Come ‘ere,” he said, and Steve looked up with wonder-filled eyes before he stepped between the brunette’s legs.

Bucky took his face in one hand and pushed back a stray strand of golden hair with the other. Steve leaned into him, planting his palms on the table beside his thighs. 

“I love you,” Bucky said, and he didn’t have to wait long for a devastatingly bright smile to break on Steve’s face.

Oh, how he wished he didn’t have to part from this man. 

He wanted to kiss him, but he knew that if he did he’d never want to stop. You couldn’t just take one bite of the forbidden fruit, after all. You’d always want more and more until you could no longer live without it. Until the sweetness of it rotted your taste for anything else. That would be no good; he already needed Steve like he needed air. How would he be able to go on?

Shuri came back and asked them if they were ready. 

Steve gave Bucky an exasperated look as if suddenly the urgency of the moment had weighed down on him, but Bucky smiled and told him that it was okay. That it’d be fine. He’d gone through this before.

In a way, so had Steve, so he probably understood better than anyone else.

With a pat on the blond man’s waist to get him to move, Bucky hopped off the table and followed Shuri to the cryo chamber. Steve remained a hair’s breadth behind. He was so close Bucky could almost feel his body against his and the warm breath on the nape of his neck.

The machine was cylindrical with a metal door and a rounded window where he’d be able to catch his last glimpses of the room before the ice froze him solid, and he fell into a deep, dreamless sleep.

At that moment, T’Challa walked in with Natasha and Sam on his tail. They were somber, as was to be expected, but Nat managed at least one reassuring smile before it faded like everyone else’s.

The exception, of course, was Steve, who was doing a terrifyingly good job of not losing his composure. He hadn’t once looked grieved since they’d woken up that morning. He was probably trying to make the day seem as normal as ever, only it wasn’t. Bucky wasn’t used to this much attention from him. Not the jovial breakfast from that morning. Not the pleasant afternoon walk. Especially not the constant hand-holding. It was unnatural. 

He wouldn’t tell him that, though. He didn’t want Steve to beat himself up over it when he was gone.

Shuri opened the capsule and motioned for Bucky to go in. 

Bucky stepped inside and turned around to face them. One of the assistants was pressing buttons on the side panel of the machine, while Shuri made sure that the wiring that would keep his vitals monitored was attached correctly to him. Steve hovered behind her, peering over her shoulder an honorable distance away, trying not to crowd her.

Bucky’s eyes never left him, even when Shuri stepped away and closed the door and Bucky’s entire field of vision was condensed by the small frame of the circular window. A narrowed view of a narrow world, and in it, all that mattered. Steve.

He took in all that beauty and all that strong grace. It was as if the seconds had slowed down to a crawl. 

Eventually, when it came time for him to go, Bucky left with a smile etched on his lips, knowing that all the pain they’d been through had only fortified their bond, not diminished it. That they had overcome almost a century’s worth of pulled threads and frayed edges so that they could stitch themselves back into each other’s lives. He had confidence, now more than ever, that they’d make it to the end of the line. If not for all this, then for the three little words that Steve mouthed to him before his vision went black and time finally stopped.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Only the Epilogue is left.


End file.
